


Oublie Moi

by multilingualism



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Drama, Drama & Romance, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Post Hogwarts AU, Post-War, Romance, Severus Snape Lives, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2018-12-04 01:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11544282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/multilingualism/pseuds/multilingualism
Summary: Hermione trades her old life in Wizarding London for a quiet existence as the newest teacher at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. However she soon finds reality is rarely the same as expectations.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You might be thinking this sounds familiar to another work and you'd be right! I wasn't happy with where Histoire Eternelle was going so instead of being sensible and reworking it, I just scrapped it entirely. So, sorry if you liked that. It's funny because I started and published (on FF) a similar story in 2012 too, but quickly trashed that as well. I clearly have been bestowed with many great ideas.

Hermione lurched awake as her train halted to a stop. A voice came over the loudspeaker indicating that she had reached her destination and it was time to disembark. Gathering her belongings, Hermione noticed that the book she had been reading was on the floor, its bookmark on the seat beside her. She sighed as she placed the book into her backpack and hoped she would be able to find her place later. Slinging her backpack over her shoulder, Hermione bent down to retrieve a cranky Crookshanks, whose cat carrier had been magically extended, but who nevertheless found reasons to complain. 

Stepping onto the platform, Hermione glanced around at the people milling about the station. The faces passed into a blur until a familiar one caught her eye. From under judgemental brows peered a pair of obsidian eyes, which came to meet her own. Hermione’s stomach began performing a series of acrobatic feats to rival the most talented gymnast. This was the last place she would expect to see him and his presence at the train station could only mean one thing. She knew she was supposed to walk towards the man, but her feet were not listening to her brain. The man, however, only seemed capable of looking straight through her. Finally Hermione was able to find some Gryffindor courage buried somewhere deep within her.

“Hello, sir. What brings you to this small station in provincial France?” she asked, praying it was not as she thought.

“I expected better from you, Miss Granger. Is my presence not a clear enough indication that we are to be working together?”

“Oh, I see. Madame Maxime never told me I would be getting an escort to the school.”

“She was worried you would not be able to find your way,” he said, walking away from her.

Hermione was silent. She expected no less from the Bat of the Dungeons. He was picking up pace and Hermione was struggling to keep up. Snape had not offered to help her carry her things and Crookshanks carrier kept hitting her leg while she jogged lightly. She was sure she would have a bruise there in the morning.

“Miss Gray, by the way. I’m sure the Headmistress informed you of my alias.”

“I’ll try to remember it to the best of my ability, though that may be too difficult a task for me,” Snape said. Though Hermione could not see his face, the sneer was evident in his voice.

Snape stopped so abruptly that Hermione almost collided with him.

“Here is a good a spot as any to apparate,” he said, extending his arm in her general direction.

Hermione interpreted this as an invitation to take it and was rewarded with a pulling sensation at her navel. When the world stopped spinning and Hermione felt the solid earth beneath her feet once more, she took the opportunity to check up on Crookshanks. Having confirmed that he was only mildly annoyed at her, Hermione looked up at the building before her. Beauxbâtons Academy of Magic was an expansive white marble château, perched above a cliff in the Pyrenees. While Hermione appreciated the ability to see the beautiful grounds, lush with flowering gardens, statues, and fountains, she wished Snape had apparated them closer to the front door. Although she supposed that even in this post-war period, there would still be wards around the school, preventing apparition.

Snape walked too quickly through the castle for Hermione to get a good look of her new home. She caught glimpses of even more marble, paintings in ostentatious frames, and copious windows--a lot more windows than Hogwarts had ever had. Hermione first assumed he was showing her to where she would be staying, but was now uncertain. They finally stopped in front of an ornately-carved, mahogany door to which Snape whispered something, presumably the password. The door swung open, its heaviness and ancientness evident in its creaking. Following Snape inside, she saw an abnormally large desk in front of an abnormally large chair. The carvings on the desk and chair seemed at first glance to match those on the door. Snape picked up Hermione’s backpack and Crookshanks’ cat carrier without a word and made them disappear with a flick of his wand. Hermione was about to protest when she realized they were being joined by a third person.

“Madame Granger, what a pleasure it is to meet you at last. Minerva had nothing but good things to say about you,” the giantess said, sitting down. She gestured for Hermione and Snape to do the same.

Hermione felt a hot blush creep into her ears and cheeks, but the feeling dissipated when she heard Snape snort loudly beside her. Leave it to Professor Snape to remind Hermione to not take herself too seriously.

“Something funny, professor? If I’m not mistaken, you would also have had Hermione as a student. Was Minerva perjuring when she extolled this young woman’s work ethic and aptitude for magic?”

“On the contrary, as someone who has read many essays written by Miss Granger, I can say you’ve made an excellent decision in choosing her to teach  _ English _ ,” Snape said, putting particular snarl on the last word.

However Madame Maxime seemed to pay no mind to her old professor’s comment.

“Madame Granger, I know I’ve hired you to teach English, but since the subject is more an elective than a requirement, I require your help in a second subject.”

Hermione was surprised, but pleased to hear that she would be entrusted with the responsibility of teaching yet another course. She bet it was Arithmancy or Transfiguration, since those were some of her best subjects and surely Professor McGonagall would have mentioned this to the Headmistress. She also did not have to worry about co-teaching with Snape since he would have never allowed something like that to happen, though she supposed her colleague could be someone equally as unpleasant. Hermione shuddered to think of a person more unpleasant than he.

“You see,” Madame Maxime continued, “Beauxbâtons not only accepts students from France, but also the Netherlands, Belgium, Luxembourg, Spain and Portugal. Many of these students have had some French-language education, but some come with no knowledge of French at all. I would like you to help these students learn French. You have some experience in that endeavor.”

Crestfallen, Hermione labored to keep her face even, with a hint of a smile. But as her mind worked at its characteristically fast pace, Hermione realized to herself that she would be the most important teacher these students would have. If they did not learn French, they would not be able to learn their other subjects either. She still was not teaching a magical subject, but was helping children to learn not magic itself?

“We ask these students to come a year earlier than their Francophone peers. They spend part of the day receiving French lectures and the remainder shadowing older students from their respective home countries. What do you think?”

She had been reading books on teaching English as a foreign language but nothing about French, though she assumed the same principles applied. Luckily she still had several more weeks before term began to do sufficient research on the matter. Her teaching partner would also be of considerable assistance.

“I am honored… to have been given this position. I have only one question. With whom will I be teaching?”

“That would be me,” Snape intoned.

Hermione bit her lip, fighting hide the displeasure which threatened to contort her mouth into a frown but she was relieved to see Madame Maxime was no longer looking at her, but at Snape. 

“Professor Rogue, will you please show Mademoiselle Granger her office and then her quarters?” the giantess said, standing up.

Hermione had not even noticed that her former professor had left the office when she got up from her own chair. She had to dash from the room to catch up with him.

“Sir,” she said, casting a Muffliato when she finally reached the man. “When were you planning to tell me that you were operating under a new name? I could’ve blown your cover!”

Snape crossed his arms. His look of annoyance was a plain as his hooked nose. It was then that Hermione noticed that he had cut his hair too. The black strands were less lank than she had remembered and appeared almost fluffy, but that may have been due to its shorter length.

“Do you, uh, have a different first name too?” she offered, hoping to propel the conversation forward.

Snape scoffed. Hermione could tell he was clearly miffed that he even had to show her around and now he was forced to stoop so low as to converse with her.

“We may both be teachers, Miss Granger, but do you really believe I would allow you to use my first name?”

“Professor Gray,” Hermione corrected.

Snape looked around. “You put up this damn spell, what do you care if I call you the wrong name?”

“I want you to get used to it.”

“Do you honestly think I, of all people, would, as you said it, ‘blow your cover?’”

“Sorry, I did not mean to offend. I just--”

“Is there anything else you want to waste my time with? Can we be going now?”

Hermione undid the Muffliato and walked just behind the Potions Master, silently cursing her luck at being given the one position that would force her to work with Snape on a regular basis. She noticed that he was not dressed in all black, but rather a dark brown cloak. Hermione seemed to remember that he had been wearing a cravat still, as well as a waistcoat and a jacket. She cursed herself for not researching French Wizarding fashion further; she had no intention to stick out.

Her office was on the fifth floor in the south tower of the castle, furnished as elegantly as the rest of the castle and awash in light. Hermione’s favorite part, however, were the floor to ceiling built-in bookshelves lining two of the four walls. Masking her glee, she nodded to Snape, indicating that she was ready to move on in their tour. The classrooms were on the floors below the offices. The language classrooms were clustered together which meant Hermione would not have to walk far between her French and English classes.

She did not want to dally too long in the rooms since her existence alone seemed to be trying enough for the  _ poor _ man, but made mental note of where everything was for later investigation. Snape next led her to the east wing. The female teachers slept above the female students, while the male students and teachers slept in the west wing.

“This school does not segregate its students by such arbitrary traits as personality, especially since it only seems to sow unnecessary resentment between groups,” he explained.

It was Hermione’s turn to snort, albeit very quietly. Snape stopped in front of a non-descript, white door and Hermione was left to figure that this must be her quarters. She turned to thank her former professor, but he was nowhere to be seen. Hermione shrugged, equally thankful to be rid of him as he was of her.

Crookshanks ran to her as soon as she opened the door. She bent down to scratch his ears as he purred and rubbed against her legs.

“Hey, buddy, welcome to our new home.”

This first room must be the living room, Hermione reasoned. There was an antique, pink loveseat and a coffee-brown leather wing-back chair surrounding a stone fireplace. The next room was her bedroom, which was furnished with a canopy bed, a matching dresser, wardrobe, and vanity. Hermione walked into the final room and found the bathroom, even more elegant than either of the other rooms, all marble and gold accents. The tub alone could be considered a swimming pool. Hermione was only a tiny bit disappointed there was no bookshelf within her rooms, but resolved to build herself one as soon as she was able.

Once Hermione had finished unpacking her clothes and piling her books into neat stacks in her bedroom. She was not overly fond of her white sheets, so she magicked them to a deep crimson. There were crimson accents in the gaudy blue and gold fleur-de-lis wallpaper that lined her rooms and she thought the color would be a good compromise between changing the interior entirely. It was not likely that anyone would see her bedroom, but Hermione wanted it to look nice, at least for herself. She relished the opportunity to exert some creative control over her living space, something she had yet to experience.

When she was finally mostly satisfied with her decorating, Hermione looked at the clock and realized it was almost time for dinner. Snape had not shown her where the dining area was, but being Hermione Granger, she was confident that she would be able to find her way. Catching her appearance in the vanity, Hermione recognized that she should change into something more elegant than a t-shirt and jeans. She chose a modest navy dress and white flats. There was not much she could do with her hair after she had had it almost entirely chopped off, but she thought a braided, gold headband might look nice with the rest of her outfit. Removing her glasses, she added a couple of swipes of mascara to her lashes. After she checked that nothing was in her teeth, she tucked her wand into a hidden pocket on the dress. 

Closing the door behind her, Hermione felt her wards go up. Assuming the most likely place for a common eating room would be in the center of the castle, she walked in that direction.

“Wait up!” a feminine voice called to her, in French.

Hermione turned to see a blonde woman in a green dress walking briskly towards her.

“Professor Martin,” she said, outstretching a hand, “but you can call me Béatrice.”

“I’m--” Hermione responded in French before being interrupted.

“Let me guess, Professor Gray? You’re the only new professor this year, so I figured.”

“Yes, that’s right, but you can me Jean,” Hermione said, suddenly self-conscious of her voice and her French.

“Well, Jean, were you going to dinner? I was just coming to get you. I didn’t know if anyone had told you about meal times and I’m sure it would be better to go in at least knowing one person,” she said, smiling warmly.

Béatrice was a slower walker than Snape which afforded Hermione a better opportunity to admire the castle. She was a better tour guide too and offered up details about artwork, which Hermione absorbed with relish. Her eagerness was clearly not lost on Béatrice.

“Most teachers here were students of Beauxbâtons themselves so they know all of this stuff already. In fact, there’s only one other teacher who didn’t attend school here--Professor Rogue. If I’m not mistaken, he studied at Durmstrang. And you at Hogwarts, right?”

Hermione merely nodded, wondering what new things she would learn about “Professor Rogue” next.

The rest of the staff was already seated when the two arrived at the dining hall. The hall was a two-story circular room. At the center was a round table large enough to seat all of the teachers. Madame Maxime sat at the extra large chair exactly opposite the entrance. Hermione looked up and was greeted to the sight of a ceiling made entirely of windows. These windows were less magical than the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall at Hogwarts but Hermione supposed they more or less accomplished the same job.

Béatrice took the seat beside a tall, dark-haired witch, which left Hermione to sit beside a broad wizard. She was thankful to sit anymore but beside the Potions professor.

“Now that we are gathered here, I think introductions are in order. Professor Gray, would you please stand up?”

Hermione did as she was bid and felt her ears become hot.

“This is Professor Jean Gray and she is going to be teaching English as well as French with Professor Rogue.”

The other teachers clapped while Hermione sat back into her chair too quickly.

“You didn’t tell me you would be teaching French too!” Béatrice said, still clapping. “I guess you will get to know Professor Rogue really well. He’s nice; you’ll like him.”

Hermione was sure this woman had Snape confused for someone else but dared not say anything. She was not supposed to know him at all.

When the applause had ceased, the broad-shouldered wizard turned to her, offering his hand.

“Hello, Sébastien Montclair. I teach Potions,” he said, his blue-green eyes twinkling.

They shook hands, but Hermione was thinking of Snape. Had he finally achieved his dreams of teaching Defense?

“How could I be so rude?” Béatrice said. “I forgot to tell you what subject I teach--Defense Against the Forces of Evil. Do they have that at Hogwarts?”

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but the dark-haired witch beside Béatrice piped up.

“Of course they do! Don’t you remember reading about their war in the paper with what’s-his-name?”

Hermione assumed they dared not speak his name for the same reason as the British wizards, but this was not the first time she was wrong today.

“Foldort, right?” Béatrice said, with too much surety.

“No, I think you mean Maldenord,” the dark-haired witch responded.

“Voldemort,” Sébastien corrected, smiling at Hermione as he said it.

“That’s it. I knew it was something stupid.”

“Leave it to the Anglophone to sully the French language,” the dark-haired witch said. However when she looked at Hermione, she quickly added, “No offense.”

Béatrice looked at Hermione with wide eyes, “I’m sorry if we’re making light of a dark part of your past.”

“No, it’s fine,” Hermione said, keeping her face even, “he disappeared when I was too young to understand and only returned after I had graduated from Hogwarts and moved to the United States.”

“Did you ever meet the boy who survived, then? Harold Porter?” the dark-haired witch inquired, not looking up from her wine glass.

“He was a couple of years behind me, but I didn’t know him, no.” Hermione knew her years of stress and antics with the Time-Turner lent credence to the idea that she was older than Harry.

“That’s enough questions, Phœbé. She’s clearly uncomfortable,” Béatrice said, giving Hermione an apologetic glance.

“No, it’s fine, really,” Hermione said, probably smiling much too broadly.

“You haven’t even been properly introduced and you’re already harassing the poor woman! Jean, this is Phœbé Laurier. She’s teaches History of Magic. As you can tell, she’s quite bad at modern history.”

“Recent events haven’t even been added to the textbooks yet! What do you expect?” Phœbé said, pouring herself more wine.

After they had finished eating, Hermione had to stick around to be introduced to all of the professors and their myriad of subjects. Beauxbâtons offered more courses than Hogwarts, including, classes in wand making and lore, the classical languages, and economics. Not to mention the variety of electives from the physical--archery and ballet, to the artistic--oil painting and sculpture.

“Jean, this is the professor I was telling you about, Professor Rogue,” Béatrice said, practically dragging Hermione over to Snape. “He’s going to be your partner in knowledge!”

“Indeed,” Snape said, in a not unfriendly manner.

“And what other subject do you teach, Professor Rogue?” Hermione asked, mimicking his polite tone.

“German,” he responded.

Hermione was unsure how to respond. She felt like she was missing the joke. While she had already met the professors for Potions and Defense, his preferred subjects, she knew the man was capable in many other magical fields. At least she assumed he was. Then again, his knowledge of German would fit with his supposed Durmstrang education. Viktor had told Hermione a bit about the school and that German was the chosen lingua franca.

“Jean, where has your mind wandered off to? Professor Rogue just asked you a question!”

“Huh?” Hermione said, her eyes refocusing onto her conversation partners. “Oh, sorry. What were you saying?”

“How are you finding our school so far?” Snape asked, without a trace of annoyance in his voice.

“It’s lovely. And everyone here has been so accommodating and welcoming.”

“I would expect nothing less from my esteemed colleagues.”

Béatrice giggled beside Hermione. Meanwhile Hermione herself was looking around the room, desperate to find someone else for the blonde witch to introduce herself to.

“Your French is nearly flawless, Professor Gray, but do I detect a bit of an accent?”

“She’s from England!” Béatrice blurted out. “But you’ve spent considerable time in the United States, isn’t that right?”

Hermione nodded, content to have her companion answer for her from now on.

“America? How interesting. What did you do there?” Snape asked, to her chagrin.

Cursing herself for not fleshing out her “Jean” backstory more, Hermione went with the only idea she had.

“I was a student. At Harvard,” she said with as much conviction as she could muster.

“Harvard, eh? I did not realize I was in the presence of a genius. What did you study?” Snape asked, arching a brow.

“English,” Hermione ad-libbed.

“How silly of me. Why would I expect an English teacher to have studied anything else?” Snape paused and gave her a pointed look. “Forgive my curiosity, but what did you do after you finished your degree? Presuming you did, of course.”

“I came here.”

“It took you eight years to get your degree?” Béatrice interjected, more curious than judgmental.

“Well, you see, I didn’t just get what is known in the American Muggle world as a ‘bachelor’s’ but also a ‘master’s’ and a  ‘PhD.’”

“You got your PhD from Harvard and you’re teaching English to magical children in France?” Snape was apparently amused because he was grinning, a rare sight.

“Yes, well you know what they say about English majors.”

Béatrice, clearly lost by all this talk of the Muggle higher education system, said, “No. What do they say?”

Hermione was about to explain the joke to her colleague, when Snape interrupted. “I don’t want to take up anymore of your precious time, ladies.” He turned to Hermione. “It was nice to meet you, Dr. Gray.”

While Hermione was pleased that interaction was over, Béatrice seemed positively giddy.

“I told you he was nice. Although he seemed especially friendly today,” the blonde said with an exaggerated wink.

“What are you implying?” Hermione asked, fearing the other woman’s response.

“He likes you!”

“Don’t be silly. Men can be friendly without it meaning anything more.”

“Oh, how do you know? Are you a master of legilimency or something?”

“No, just trust me.”

“Well, don’t forget you’ll be working together all year, so that will allow plenty of time for this,” Beatrice said, pointing between Hermione and Snape’s disappearing figure.

Hermione, however, did not need reminding.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long. I am lazy. I am getting better though. Also FrancineHibiscus joked about Jean Gray and Rogue which I swear was not intentional (I swear this isn't secretly X-Men fan fiction). Jean Gray came from Hermione Jean Gray-nger and technically the Phoenix's name is Jean Grey. As for Rogue, that's his surname in the French editions, of which I have partially read Prisoner of Azkaban.

Hermione knew she was having a nightmare. The events unfolding before were far too terrible to be real; her logical brain could spot that almost immediately. She wanted more than anything to wake, yet she remained trapped in a scenario of escalating horrors. It was only when she saw his cruel, toothy grin that she finally jolted awake, her adrenaline still pumping. The light peeking through her gauzy curtains indicated to Hermione that now was a good time as any to prepare for her day. 

Nearly a week had passed since Hermione had first arrived at the school and her days were falling into a busy, albeit comforting, pattern. Her first task of the morning was to make a quick trip to the library. The Hogwarts library would always be her first home, but the archives at Beauxbâtons’ own were quickly making their own place in her heart. The room, if you could even call it that, was three stories tall, each story encircled by a balcony and each balcony stuffed with shelves and shelves of books.

After frequent trips to this hallowed place, Hermione made short work of finding the necessary texts for her research. The hunt invigorated Hermione and she strode from the library, carrying her trophies, a precarious tower of books, through the hallways. Wandlessly and wordlessly casting a Tempus charm, since she could not see her watch under knowledge mountain, Hermione calculated that she still had enough time to run these books to her office before breakfast started and the chocolatines were all eaten.

When Hermione was on a mission, she tended to lose focus of the world around her. So, it was no surprise when she almost walked into somebody.

“What are you doing there, Jean?” came Béatrice’s cheerful voice, breaking Hermione’s wall of concentration.

“Just taking these to my office for later,” Hermione responded.

“What happened to the stack I saw you carrying Wednesday?” the blonde witch asked.

“I finished and returned those already,” Hermione said, realizing how ridiculous it sounded.

“Bastien and I were just talking about you,” Béatrice segued.

“You were?” Hermione felt her ears go red. She had not even noticed Sébastien was there as well.

“Don’t worry, all good things,” Sébastien said.

“We wanted to take you out for a drink tonight to celebrate you coming to Beauxbâtons,” Béatrice said.

“That... that sounds wonderful.” Hermione felt that she could do with some fun and frivolity in her life.

“Excellent! Obviously me and Bastien and Phœbé are going, but I was also thinking of inviting other teachers too. What do you think?”

“Of course. The more, the merrier,” Hermione responded. 

“Great, we can talk more about it later.”

Hermione excused herself and was once again alone in her thoughts. She wondered if Béatrice would invite Snape to this outing. But even if he were invited, she doubted he would accept. Hermione had yet to hear from Snape about their joint-teaching venture, which she supposed should have made her happy, but it just made her more nervous about the future. She resolved to solve this problem after a hearty breakfast.

Knocking on the door of the office closest to her own, Hermione wondered how she had not seen the man at all, especially since she doubted he was truly busy.

“Enter,” came his stern baritone.

She loitered in the door frame, expecting some sort of greeting from the man currently bent over his desk. Hermione should have known not to expect cordiality from the Dungeon Bat. Perhaps she had been fooled by the distinctly un-dungeon-like appearance of the room she now stood in.

“Excuse me, sir. I hope I’m not interrupting,” she started.

“What do you want, Miss Granger?” he asked without looking up from his work.

“I was just wondering when we were going to meet to discuss our plan for this year, sir.”

“Plan?” 

“Yes, you know: delegation of responsibilities, lesson plans, goals--”

“Alright. I teach afternoons Monday, Wednesday, Friday and mornings on Tuesday and Thursday. Satisfied?”

Hermione wanted to respond in the negative, to elaborate that she was looking for more information than that, perhaps even get him to share some words of wisdom, but she stopped herself. Snape was stubborn, perhaps even more stubborn than her, and she doubted any amount of protestations would sway him. Hermione realized how naïve she was in hoping they could ever share a pleasant, productive conversation.

“Sure” was all she could muster.

The dark-haired wizard may have nodded or given some other visual cue that he had heard Hermione, but she was not looking as she left, practically bolting out the door, and he made not a single sound. Defeated, Hermione weighed her options. She was starting to consider begging Madame Maxime to find her a replacement, but she also knew it would look poorly on her if she gave up before the job even started. She had to keep imagining this as a worthy challenge, an exciting opportunity, rather than the unfortunate situation it was shaping up to be. Hermione stopped on her journey to nowhere-in-particular to stare out a window, when she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye in one of the empty classrooms.

A person clad entirely in white, face obscured by a wire mask, was lunging methodically, arm outstretched, clutching a thin sword. Hermione walked closer to get a better look when the masked person seemed to turn and directly at her.

“Sorry if I’m intruding,” she said, backing away. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

The person removed his mask in a flourish, revealing the tousled hair and brilliant blue eyes of a certain Potions professor.

“It’s cute when you speak English.” he said, approaching her, tucking his sword and mask beneath his left arm.

Hermione had not even realized that she was not speaking French, probably since her mind was still replaying her previous encounter. She cleared her throat. “Pardon me. I hope you did not stop because of me.”

“Don’t worry; I was almost done anyway.”

“So, fencing, eh?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah. This particular type is épée. I fenced at university, so I was grateful when the headmistress let me teach the sport here.”

“You went to university? Where?”

“I may not be a Harvard grad--” Sébastien must have seen the confused look on Hermione’s face, because he added, “Béa told me--but I did study at a university called Cambridge. You may have heard of it.”

Hermione felt a stab of jealousy. Before she had found out she was a wizard, she had wanted to attend Cambridge.

“Can’t say I have,” she said, continuing the joke in an attempt to hide her envy. “What did you study?”

“I’m the Potions professor, so I’ll give you one guess.”

“Hmm,” Hermione said, scratching her chin, “Gender Studies?”

“Ha. Chemistry.”

“How was I supposed to guess that?”

“I don’t know. I guess you’re not as smart I thought.”

Hermione laughed, her previous problems melting away. “Nope.”

“What about you? Did you do any sports during any point of your illustrious education?”

“Oh, no, I’m more of a book person.”

“That’s a shame. You were almost perfect.”

Today must have been an uncharacteristic day for Hermione, because she heard herself respond, “well, you could teach me how to fence.”

Sébastien raised an eyebrow at her. “You want to learn to fence? But I thought you were more of a book person.”

“I could afford to get more exercise.”

“Alright, I’ll get you a jacket, a mask,--”

“Now?”

“No time like the present.”

When Sébastien returned, Hermione donned the necessary gear. She touched the edge of the sword tentatively, testing its sharpness.

“It’s dull, yes, but be careful. The metal can become jagged from use.”

Hermione pulled her finger away the blade and slipped on her gloves. Sébastien began showing her the basic forms. Though he was a patient teacher, Hermione was a slow learner and kept forgetting how to hold her arm or bend her legs. Occasionally Sébastien would touch her to correct her posture and each time caught her by surprise. The more time they spent together, the more uncomfortable Hermione became. There was nothing untoward going on between them, nevertheless Hermione still felt her heart thumping and her cheeks growing hot.

Once the lesson ended Hermione did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Sébastien was her colleague and most likely only saw her as such. Moreover she did not come to France to fall in love, so it was best for her to squash these feelings before she broke her heart again. Putting her glasses back on, Hermione handed him the uniform and mask.

“Has anyone told you how beautiful your eyes are?” Sébastien said, as nonchalantly as if he were asking for the time.

Hermione froze, confused at first as to why anyone would compliment her eyes, when she remembered that she had started wearing colored contacts.

“Uh, no?” she said, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Are they green or blue?”

This question also caught Hermione off guard. When she had purchased them, she was unconcerned with the color, only that they fit and were not brown. She also did not make it a habit to spend too much time staring of looking at herself in the mirror.

“Oh, I don’t know. They change color depending on what I’m wearing,” she said, remembering something she had heard non-brown-eyed girls say.

Hermione turned away from his gaze, not wanting him to look at her irises too hard, lest he saw the outline of her contacts and wonder why she was wearing both contacts and glasses.

“Do you know what’s for dinner tonight? I’m starving,” she said, walking with Sébastien from the classroom.

After a delicious meal, Hermione followed her friends from the dining hall, out the front door to wait by a spectacular marble fountain. Béatrice and Phœbé were having a laugh about Sébastien’s impromptu fencing lesson, which only improved Hermione’s mood. If the two witches did not see it as anything more than an amusing anecdote, then perhaps she should see the incident in the same light. There was only one thing that could dampen her spirits now and that thing was walking towards them, cloak billowing. It was just her luck that he would be feeling sociable tonight. Much to her relief, however, he chose to ignore her and to talk to the wizard Hermione believed to be the Herbology professor.

The group began to move, Hermione moving with them, but lost in thought. She never thought that Professor Snape was particularly gregarious, but she supposed she did remember seeing him at the Three Broomsticks with other professors and what were the Death Eaters, if not a strange club. Did he have friends at Beauxbâtons? Were these his friends? Had she encroached upon his friend group? He did not sit near them during meal times yet he had readily accepted this invitation despite knowing that Hermione would be coming along. 

The group stopped and Hermione felt someone grab her wrist. This sensation was accompanied by the uncomfortable feeling of being squeezed through a rod. As quick as the discomfort started, it subsided, but was promptly replaced by intense nausea and followed by an uncontrollable urge to wretch. Hermione had no idea where she was but her first instinct was to run from the people she sensed beside her.

Hermione only made it so far before she lost her dinner. Mortified, she scourgified the taste of aioli from her mouth, hoping no one had noticed her momentary absence. This, as she had expected, did not happen.

“What did you do to her, Bastien?” Béatrice accused.

“Jean, you’re not supposed to do that yet,” Phœbé joked.

“Was this your first time apparating?” Sébastien teased.

Trying to maintain what little dignity she still had, Hermione decided her best course of action was to join in on the friendly needling. “No, it’s just that you smell so bad,” she said, realizing too late how lame she sounded.

To her surprise, however, the group burst out laughing, save for Snape, of course. Once they had all checked that Hermione was okay, the group of teachers went on their merry way. Looking around, Hermione guessed they were in a muggle village. An odd choice, she thought, since they would stick out, but as they passed under a lamp post, Hermione realized that her compatriots seemed to have transfigured their clothes into something less conspicuous. Everything Hermione owned erred on the side of mugglish, so she blended in well enough in her simple black top and trousers.

Single file they walked into a medieval-looking bar at the end of the main road. Hermione glanced at the sign hanging over the door.  _ Domaine Cavailles _ , it read. Béatrice led them to the back where they took seats around a wooden table. Overwhelmed by the extensive wine list, Hermione decided to get whatever the waitress recommended--a Bordeaux.

“So, Jean, by now we’ve already all hear about your adventures in fencing, but did you ever do any other sports?” Béatrice asked.

Hermione took a sip of her wine. “I’m afraid you’ve picked the wrong conversation topic for me; I’m rather unathletic. Of course, it didn’t help that the only physical activity available at Hogwarts was Quidditch and I’m terrified of flying.”

“Really? Quidditch was the only sport?” Sébastien said. “I played Quidditch professionally and even I am disappointed.”

“Is that so? And what position did you play?” Hermione asked.

“Seeker,” he responded with a cocky grin.

Hermione wanted to shake her head. Typical.

“For which team?”

“The French national team.”

“Were you any good?”

“Well, we made it to the semi-finals of the World Cup in ‘98, so you tell me.”

She did not know much about Quidditch but she did know which team beat them that year and Hermione had kissed their seeker.

“Impressive. And was that before or after your stint at Cambridge?”

“Was Bastien bragging about his education again?” Béatrice asked, inserting herself back into the conversation.. 

“Is it really bragging when she got her degree from Harvard?” Sébastien asked.

“Cambridge  _ is _ older and arguably more prestigious than Harvard,” Hermione said.

Sébastien beamed at Hermione. “Thank you. I’m glad someone around recognizes my superior intellect.”

“Yes, but I don’t think you were in school as long as Jean. Eight years, was it?” Phœbé chimed in.

“That just goes to show how smart I am; I did in four years what she did in eight,” Sébastien said. “But in all seriousness, I had a choice to make.” He looked at Hermione before he began again, “I could either get my doctorate or I could get my Potions mastery. Sometimes I wonder if I had made the right decision.”

Sébastien’s sudden candor seemed to stun everyone to silence, except, of course, Hermione.

“You’re still doing research though, right? You’re still making a difference in the world, no? You’re teaching the next generation of witches and wizards. That has to mean something, right?”

“Yes, well, you always wonder how it could’ve turned out,” Sébastien said, not looking at his wine glass.

“And yet we’ll never know,” Hermione said.

“Amen. I’ll drink to that,” Sébastien responded, perking up a bit.

After another glass of wine and being pelted with more questions about her past, Hermione was ready to leave, but she did not want to disrespect her new friends. Wine made her sleepy and she was worried she might start snoring. Nevertheless the interrogation persisted.

“Do you have anyone special in your life?” Phœbé asked.

Béatrice glared at Phœbé as if to say that those kinds of questions were off-limits.

Hermione snorted. “Not anymore, no.”

It was only belatedly that she realized that that was not the correct way to answer--it only paved the way for more questions.

“Screw him. You don’t need him,” Phœbé said, to Hermione’s surprise.

“Yeah, wherever he is, he’s probably wallowing in pity as we speak, regretting ever doing you wrong,” Béatrice chimed in.

“How do you know I’m the wronged party in this scenario?” Hermione teased.

“Well, we only just met you and we can tell that you’ve never done anything wrong in your life. Ever,” Béatrice said, grinning.

“If I’m being honest, I doubt he’s even noticed I’m gone,” Hermione said.

“Unfortunately you’ve come to the wrong place to meet people--” Phœbé said.

“Oh, no, I’ve no interest--” Hermione interrupted.

“--believe it or not, but babysitting other people’s children all day does not afford many opportunities to date,” Phœbé continued.

“And don’t even think about dating one of your co-workers. That can only end badly,” Béatrice added.

The witches shared a knowing glance. Hermione knew they were thinking of the ridiculous notion that Snape was somehow pining for her. If only they knew, she thought.

Hermione was in danger of collapsing in her seat when they finally left. But after a pleasant evening, Hermione felt like she was actually making friends, a splendid feeling indeed.

The following morning Hermione woke feeling sore, likely a consequence of her regular late-night study sessions bent over a book. Combing her fingers through her newly manageable hair, Hermione thought there was no harm in spending another day in the same manner. She was still worried about her shared lessons with Snape and reading was the perfect way to keep her mind off of it. Come to think of it, she had not heard one word from him at the bar last night. Not that she was complaining.

Hermione looked over at the pile of books on her night stand, noting that she had read almost all of them already. She figured she could reread them--they were important after all--but she after had read about a bit about applied linguistics in one of her English as a foreign language textbooks, Hermione was curious to learn a bit more about the topic. Despite its enormous size, she knew she would not find any such books in the library, whose shelves were reserved for magic-related texts. While Hermione found learning magical, the curators of Beauxbâtons’ library were less inclined to think so.

During breakfast she expressed her conundrum to Béatrice and Phœbé. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately--she was unsure how to feel about him--Sébastien must have had an hangover, as he was not present.

“There’s a cute little bookshop in the little town we visited last night,” Phœbé offered.

“No, Jean is looking for something a bit more specific, we’ll have to take her  _ somewhere else _ ,” Béatrice said with a wink.

“Take me somewhere? You don’t have to do that,” Hermione said.

“What kind of friends would we be if we didn’t show all of the best places. And this fits with another plan I have been formulating. Jean, how many fancy gowns do you have with you?” the blonde witch asked.

“Fancy gowns? One? No, more like none,” Hermione responded.

“Excellent! Clear your schedule, we’re taking you to Paris,” Béatrice said triumphantly.

“Paris? Isn’t that a bit out of the way? What do I need a fancy gown for?”

“Why, Jean, haven’t you heard talk of the world-famous Beauxbâtons balls?” Béatrice said, in mock shock.

“We hold them once a month. Some are even themed! Halloween is a masquerade,” Phœbé added.

“And these are  _ fancy  _ balls?” Hermione asked.

“Is there any other kind?” Béatrice asked in return.

“I guess not,” Hermione said with a sigh. “And you two want to go to buy gowns today? How many do I even need? One for each ball? Can I repeat?”

“Well, I suppose you could, but would you want to wear a winter dress to a spring gala?” Béatrice kept answering Hermione’s questions with more questions. She felt like she was at a Socratic seminar.

Hermione could play this game too. “How are we supposed to afford this? Is there some kind of dress stipend available to teachers?”

“Just look at what Paris has to offer and if you’re not satisfied, we’ll take you to a closer,  _ cheaper _ shop.”

“I think you two just want an excuse to leave this place and go shopping,” Hermione said, crossing her arms.

“No, we’re doing this for you, because we care about you,” Béatrice countered.

Hermione rolled her eyes in an exaggerated motion at the blonde witch.

“You know, It’s not fair that we have to buy all of these expensive outfits. I’m sure the guys wear the same thing every time.”

“They change their ties sometimes,” Phœbé said.

“You’re right, Jean, but they certainly don’t have as many options as we do.”

“Fine, but this bookshop better be worth it,” Hermione said, relenting.

Once the three of them were out in the warm summer air, Béatrice gently looped her fingers around Hermione’s wrist.

“Gonna puke on me, Gray?” Béatrice asked with a devilish smile.

“He caught me off guard! I am normally fine--”

“Excuses, excuses.”

The trio apparated into a small alley off a bustling street. Hermione was not familiar with this part of the city but based on their rather ostentatious arrival, she figured they must have been in the magical part of town.

They joined the crowd. Hermione marveled at the variety of people going about the business. Wizards and witches from every corner of the world speaking languages Hermione did not recognize. She was beginning to rethink her initial apprehension about going on this trip. A cute baby in a stroller caught her eye, to whom she started to make silly faces, before being roughly yanked in the opposite direction by Béatrice.

“We aren't here to ogle babies, Jean. We’re on a mission.”

“Oh, but they're just so adorable.”

“Don't tell me you’re baby crazy.”

“What? No--”

“That won't last long once you start teaching.”

“Yeah, there's no better birth control,” Phœbé added.

Hermione laughed, hoping that they were just engaging in some friendly ribbing. The last thing she needed was them to think she was desperate for a relationship so she could have a baby.

“Here we are,” Béatrice said, finally letting go of Hermione’s wrist.

This shop was the first shop in a string of many. At each stop Hermione tried on the cheapest dress she could find but nothing was tempting enough to make her to drop more than a week’s salary on something she might wear twice. At the seventh or eighth shop--Hermione had lost count--she did not even try on the dress, just took it with her into the changing room, waited five minutes and gave it to the bored-looking sales associate. Plopping down onto an ottoman at the front of the store, Hermione pulled out her book. She was deep into reading when she was finally interrupted by someone shoving a bag in her face.

“What’s this?” Hermione asked.

“Take it,” Béatrice said, shaking it for emphasis. “It’s for you.”

“You didn’t have to do this,” Hermione said, blushing ear to ear. She cursed herself for not just buying a dress.

“Yes, I did. Consider it a welcoming present.”

Hermione removed the tissue paper revealing a dark green material. She lifted the garment from the bag and held it in front of her. The dress fell to her feet. Hermione rolled it through her fingers, noting its slightly rough texture. She had no idea the different names of fabrics, but at least she could identify the lace that composed the shoulders and back of the dress.

“Do you like it? I thought this color would really bring out your eyes.” Béatrice was looking at Hermione expectantly.

“Of course I love it! And that was really thoughtful that you thought of me, of my eyes.”

“You’re going to be the belle of the ball,” Béatrice said, clasping her hands together.

“Béa, we talked about this!” Phœbé said, appearing behind Béatrice. “I was going to buy her the green dress.”

“No, it was my idea, so I was the one who was going to buy her the green dress!”

“Oh, well. I guess everyone will be green with envy every time they see you, Jean,” Phœbé said, handing off her own bag.

“Two dresses? If you guys were planning this, why didn’t you just chip in and buy me one?”  Hermione asked as she reluctantly took the bag.

“Just shut up and open the bag, Gray,” Phœbé responded.

Hermione was pleased to see that this dress was long-sleeved and had a modest neckline.

“Uh, Jean, you’re looking at it the wrong way,” Phœbé said after a while.

Flipping the garment around, she saw a plunging neckline, which nearly met the slit in the skirt.

“Don’t look so surprised! You’re going to have to show some skin if you’re going to even have the slightest hope of finding a husband,” Béatrice teased. “You know Rogue couldn’t keep his eyes off of you at the bar.”

“Yeah, he was looking at you the whole night,” Phœbé added.

Hermione tried to keep her cool, but she could feel the tips of her ears burning red. “That’s because I was the one doing all the talking! That’s the polite thing to do--look at the person who’s speaking!”

_ What was wrong with these women? Were they just saying this to be funny because Snape would be the last person to fall in love with her? Why weren’t they teasing her about Sébastien, someone with whom she interacted much more frequently? _

Hermione gave an exaggerated sigh. “Can we go to the bookstore yet?”

Leaving the boutique, the three walked to the end of the road. Everything seemed normal at first until Hermione felt an invisible force--likely wards--glide over her. They had left Wizarding Paris and had entered the normal, albeit familiar Paris of summers with her parents. When she was a lot younger, she would beg them to take her into every bookshop that crossed their path. After a couple of summers she learned which stores were her favorite. Thinking about her mom and dad brought a pain to her chest, but she forced the feeling aside. It would be hard to explain tears on a joyous trip to buy her favorite thing in the world, so she decided to refocus her thoughts. She wondered if the bookstore Béatrice had claimed was perfect for her was one she had been to before. Hermione had not been back to the city since before her fifth year at Hogwarts, so things were liable to change. 

When they stopped Hermione recognized their surroundings as the 6th arrondissement, perhaps her favorite since it was considered the city’s cradle of intellectual pursuits. She may have not visited every shop in this district, but she was sure she had come close. Walking ahead to bask in the glory of learning, Hermione stopped when she saw Béatrice’s finger shoot past her face.

“There it is,” Béatrice said, pointing at a red storefront.

_ La Librairie Internationale _ read the sign above the door. 

The shop was unfamiliar and unimpressive, Hermione remarked, but once inside she was greeted with the sight of rows and rows of shelves, packed floor to ceiling with books. She could not help the smile that spread across her face as she perused the volumes, which appeared to be organized by language. Going from section to section, she collected instructional guides for Dutch, Spanish, and Portuguese. Hermione knew that she had to stop when the pile in her arm had become untenable, balanced precariously in her arms. Walking to the front of the store, she looked around for her companions to no avail. She hoped that she had not spent too much time looking at books.

“Found everything you were looking for?” the cashier asked in English.

“Yes,” Hermione responded, a bit put-out that something about her still screamed “not French.”

Looking down at her feet, wondering if she would ever belong in this country, a book gilded with a map of France caught her eye.  _ Les langues régionales ou minoritaires de France _ . Hermione surveyed her pile on the cashier’s desk. She  _ had _ not bought a dress and after all, what was one more book? Acting on a whim, Hermione added the book to the pile.

“Have you seen a blonde and a brunette, by the way? The ones who came in with me?” she asked as she handed her euros over.

The cashier only shrugged. Hermione collected her change and new bags and stalked from the bookshop. The books may have been excellent, but the service of  _ La Librairie Internationale  _ left something to be desired.

“Was it a success?” she heard Béatrice say, nearly giving her a heart attack.

“Er, yeah,” Hermione said once her pulse had slowed. “Where did you guys go?”

“We wanted to get you another present,” Phœbé said.

“I can’t accept any more gifts. I’m serious. You’ve both been generous enough already.”

“Well, that’s too bad because you can’t return it!” the blonde witch said, handing her a box.

Hermione removed the lid of the box to find her name--well, her new name--carved onto a nameplate.

“It’s for your desk,” Phœbé said.

“We figured you could transfigure one yourself, but sometimes it’s nice to get muggle-made, you know?” Béatrice added.

Running her thumb over the engraved letters, Hermione felt a twinge of guilt. A small part of herself wished it said “Miss Hermione Granger,” but she forced a smile. The last thing she wanted was to appear unhappy when her colleagues had been so generous with her.

“I know what you mean. It makes you wonder how they made it,” Hermione said. “Thank you both again.”

“We know exactly how they made it. We watched them carve it. With a--what was it called, Béa?”

“A laser, I do believe,” Béatrice told them, a note of pride in her voice.

Eager to dig into her new books, Hermione turned in early that night so she could maximize her study time before breakfast. After breakfast she would have other work to attend to, but every minute before the meal could be devoted to language learning. Knowing no one would be bothered by her butchered pronunciation in the library at this hour, Hermione found a spot in the rays of the freshly-risen sun.

Hermione began with the Dutch book, reading over the pronunciation guide. The authors of the book seemed to have assumed that the reader would have some prior knowledge of German based on the examples given. She chuckled to herself, wondering what Snape would think if she asked him for help with some particularly difficult phonemes.

She had repeated the basic phrases to herself around ten times before flipping through the next chapter, deciding whether she wanted to keep working on Dutch or move onto the next language in her pile.

“You hate Hermione? Who’s that?”

“Huh, what?” Hermione said, looking up from the book and at Sébastien, who was lazily leaning on the chair across from her.

“You kept repeating to yourself ‘ick, hate Hermione’ and I was wondering who that was and what she did to inspire so much ire.”

“No, you’re mistaken,” she said with what she hoped was a convincing, totally-not-nervous laugh. “I was practicing Dutch.  _ Ik heet Hermione _ means ‘my name is Hermione.’”

“Ah. Makes sense,” Sébastien said, looking thoughtful. “Although I don’t know why you’re practicing Dutch when you’re not even fluent in French yet. Shouldn’t you be working on that?”

“Maybe I would be better at French if someone did not only speak to me in English,” Hermione retorted.

“Maybe I want to improve my English.”

“Oh, shut up, Mr. Cambridge. Your accent is more posh than mine.”

“Would you prefer I adopt an American accent? Remind you of the good ol’ days?” he said with a Southern twang.

“I don’t care how you speak, so long as you don’t interrupt my study sessions.”

“Fair enough,” he said, turning away from her. “See you later.”

Returning to her reading, Hermione smiled to herself. Sébastien wasn’t so bad. He was at least someone to banter with. Clearly he was not finished bantering, because he returned shortly afterward.

“I thought I told you to not interrupt me,” Hermione said, not looking up from the book. Then she heard the characteristic sound of a  _ Muffliato _ .

“And I thought you wanted your true identity to remain a secret, yet here you are, in the library, using your real name. Whatever would possess you to do such a thing, Miss Granger?” Snape was not angry, but he certainly did not sound too pleased with her.

Hermione wanted to keep her eyes glued on the page but she gathered her Gryffindor courage to look Snape in the eyes, albeit rather sheepishly.

“I didn’t think anybody would be here this early.”

“And yet two other people were here. Listen, I may not care whether your quote-unquote cover is blown, but I honestly thought you were more intelligent than this. It’s as if you want to be discovered,” he chided.

“Well… I suppose it wouldn’t be terrible if my friends found out.” To be fair, she was starting to ponder when she and how she was going to tell them.

“Why even bother coming under a pseudonym then?”

“I didn't know who I could trust!”

“I don’t know if you know this, Miss Granger, but the war’s over. What about the school made you think you couldn’t trust people? I never knew you were so cynical.”

“Well, now that I’ve gotten to know them, I know they are worthy of my trust.” Her argument was falling apart under Snape’s intense scrutiny.

“And yet you haven’t told them anything remotely true about yourself. That doesn’t sound like you trust them.”

Hermione opened her mouth to respond but was cut off.

“What are you hiding from everyone? What would you stand to lose if people here knew who you really were? What do you hope to gain by lying so flippantly?” he asked, quieter than before.

She supposed she could tell him her reasons, then he might understand, but could she trust  _ him _ ? He would probably only laugh at her. Before she had a chance to decide, he was gone, cape billowing behind him. Hermione wanted to yell after him “I know you are but what am I?” But she managed to bite her tongue. Why should she listen to him anyway? As if Severus Snape had a leg to stand on. Hermione was fairly certain that if she looked up “duplicitous bastard” in the dictionary she would find his scowling mug.

Checking her watch, Hermione was pleased to see she still had a bit more time to study. Picking up the next book in her pile--Spanish--Hermione returned to some much needed quiet reading.

_ What does he care so much anyway? _ she thought.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the super, super long delay.

Hermione did not suspect that the first Friday before term started would be any different from every day that had come before. However, while mechanically shoveling bits of omelette into her mouth and reading a French as a foreign language text, she heard her friends giggling excitedly beside her.

“What? Do I have egg on my face again?”

“No! Your face is perfect as always, dear. We’re just laughing about our predictions for tonight,” Béatrice said.

“Why? What’s tonight?”

“The headmistress is throwing one last party for the teachers before the real work starts,” Phœbé added.

“And every year something happens that inevitably gets talked about for the rest of year. We’re trying to guess who and what it will be.”

“You don’t think it will be me, do you?” Hermione’s sense of dread was growing.

“You’re not much of a drinker and you probably won’t dance, so it doesn’t seem likely,” Phœbé responded.

“Knowing you, you’ll probably have found a way to sneak a book into your sleeve and you’ll just be standing by the punch bowl, looking pensive,” Bea teased.

“Exactly. So, I don’t think I’m going to waste my meager salary on you,” Phœbé said.

Hermione smiled at her friends before returning to her book. The idea sat with her for a moment before she realized something.

“Wait? Do I have to dress up?” The dread had returned.

“Yes,” Phœbé said, matter-of-factly. “What’s your aversion to looking nice?”

“Don’t you think it’s fun?” Béatrice added.

“It’s unnecessarily time-consuming!” Hermione protested. _And I had other plans_ , she thought.

“You don’t even have to do your hair though,” Phœbé said, motioning to Hermione’s cropped locks.

That was true. The last time Hermione had done anything remotely similar, the majority of the time had been spent trying to tame her hair.

“Phœbé can do your makeup, if you want.”

“Ooh, can I?”

“You only have to put your dress on. Everything else will be done for you.”

“I have to waste one of my fancy outfits on a before-term teacher party?”

“You don’t want to look nice for us? Jean, I’m wounded.”

“It’s not that. That’s just one fewer time I can wear a dress.”

“If you’re that worried about it, you can borrow one of mine.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s fine.”

“Good morning, ladies,” Sébastien said, seating himself beside them.

“Jean is fighting us about the party tonight. She is mad it’s cutting into her precious reading time.”

“I never said that!” _Outloud_ , she thought. “You two are putting words in my mouth.”

“Just let us help you get ready, Jean. We don’t have a lot going on in our lives and we need more excitement,” Phœbé said.

“Well, I’m glad I could provide some entertainment,” Hermione responded, perhaps with a bit too much venom.

“Once you’re there, then you can even read in your corner. We won’t even make you dance,” Béatrice said in an attempt to sweeten the deal.

“You’re going to a party and not dancing? That’s like going to a dinner and not eating,” Sébastien said.

“You guys actually dance? With each other? Isn’t that weird?”

“What? No! It’s not in a romantic-way; it’s fun!” Sébastien responded. “They don’t dance in the English-speaking world?”

“Well, at university there was dancing, but it certainly wasn’t the ballroom kind. And the only time I ever danced was at weddings.” _And at this one, terrible school function_.

“What would you even do at parties?” Phœbé asked.

“Stand around and talk?” Hermione said. Only once the words were out of her mouth did she realize how boring that must sound.

“Ha. We don’t like each other enough to talk for that long, but dancing, dancing is good. No talking, just moving,” Sébastien said.

Dancing with her colleagues? Hermione could not get over the awkwardness of it all.

“I think I left my dancing shoes in the States.”

“Is someone nervous to embarrass herself?” Sébastien teased.

“No. What? I just want to read in the corner like they said.”

“I could teach you, you know,” Sébastien said. It seemed like a relatively innocent thing to say but the way he was looking at Hermione made her nervous.

“Nah, this book is getting to the good part, I can tell I’m going want to finish it tonight.”

“ _Französisch als Fremdsprache_? Really?”

“Let Bastien teach you! He’s the best,” Bea interjected.

“Yeah. Bastien could dance the pants off everyone here,” Phœbé added.

Sébastien raised an eyebrow. Hermione felt her face grow hot.

“Oh, alright, but only so you guys shut up,” Hermione said, praying that the conversation would soon change.

“If that’s the case, maybe I will put my money on you,” Phœbé said.

“We’re doing that again this year?” Sébastien reached into his pocket. “Ten on her.”

“That’s not fair. You three are going to meddle so that something does happen to me.”

Sébastien walked with Hermione from breakfast. She did not know why her other friends had not followed them but she hoped it was for innocent reasons. Hermione did not dare look at her companion but also felt that also might be too conspicuous, so she resolved to look ahead.

“I was serious, you know?” Sébastien had switched to English.

“Oh?” Hermione said, feigning ignorance. “About which part?” She realized she too had switched to English, something she kicked herself for. She could, after all, articulate herself well in French.

“Teaching you how to dance,” he said, turning to look at her with a crooked smile.

“Yes, about that.”

“Oh, no, here it comes--the rejection.”

“No! It really was sweet of you to offer but I didn’t know there was going to be a party tonight and I still had more work to do and I wanted them to stop teasing me.”

“It’s alright. I understand.” Sébastien gave her another half smile. “It’s just, I thought you were curious, always keen to learn and master something new.”

“Well…”

“Well, what? Is dancing less adequate because you can’t learn it from a book? You can’t learn everything from a book, you know?”

“So, I’ve heard, and yet I’ve been heretofore successful.”

“Okay, I get it. I can take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“Thank you for your understanding. It’s really nothing against you.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t take it personally. I’m sure you are just afraid you won’t immediately excel at it, which while perfectly understandable, is not a good way to live your life.”

Hermione stopped, finally daring to meet Sébastien in both eyes.

“Do you fancy yourself some sort of psychologist?”

“Am I wrong?”

Hermione sighed and threw up her hands. “Fine. I’ll do one lesson. And you’re going to see just how amazing I am at it.”

“And even you aren’t, that’s great as well.”

They had reached an intersection. Hermione turned to go to the library and assumed Sébastien would go the opposite direction to his classroom or personal rooms.

“When shall we meet?” she said, turning to walk backward to the library.

“At two? I’m sure your friends will need plenty of time to doll you up.”

Hermione did not even want to know what he meant by that.

“Same place?” she said, still walking backwards. At this point she knew the rows of statues that led to the library and was confident her path would be clear.

“As the fencing room? Yep.”

Sébastien suddenly had a strange expression on his face and for what Hermione soon grasped. She had run into something. Praying it was not a priceless piece of art, she stood frozen, waiting for the inevitable sound of a crash. Then whatever it was moved, moved past her and into her field of view.

“Oh, excuse me, Professor S- Rogue,” Hermione blurted out.

He gave her a dirty look, which to her seemed undeserved considering she had gotten his name right. Then she realized she was still in English-mode from speaking with Sébastien. That or he was mad for bumping into him. Hermione turned briefly to look at Sébastien who was holding back his laughter.

“I’m sorry, Professor Rogue. I should’ve warned her,” Sébastien apologized, in French.

Snape looked at Hermione once more before saying, “Clearly.”

Once Snape was out of their sights, Hermione gave Sébastien a playful glare.

“Well, I suppose I’ll be on my way. See you at two.”

Hermione spun on her heel to continue on her way to the library. She turned when she heard footsteps behind her.

“Are you following me?”

“No. I happen to need to use the library too. Is that a crime?” Sébastien responded, looking nonchalant.

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“I never said I wasn’t going to the library. Plus it is true that we are going to see each other at two.”

After a productive trip to the library, a relatively quiet lunch, and a quick meditation to settle her nerves. Hermione made her way to the emptied classroom.

“I’m beginning to think you like spending time with me.”

Hermione immediately regretted saying anything; she was not normally so bold. Why should she assume this man was being anything but nice to her? Sébastien looked almost offended at her comment.

“Of course I want to spend more time with you; you’re smart and funny and…”

She snorted. No one had called her funny before. Smart yes, but Hermione was no comedienne.

“Why are you laughing? I’ve just bared my soul to you and you think it’s a joke.”

“You think I’m funny? What a warped sense of humor you have.”

Sébastien smiled warmly. He was holding his arms out, indicating to her that he wanted her to join him. Hermione looked him up and down, assessing his threat level. It was then she noticed his brightly colored trainers. She walked to him, apprehension in every step. She laced her right fingers in his own and ever so gently placed her left hand on his shoulder. Sébastien responded by touching her back. Hermione tensed then, unused to the sensation, but prayed that her dance partner had not noticed, lest he find her rude.

Sébastien must have sensed her nervousness because he added, “I don’t find you ha-ha funny. But you’re still funny in your own way.”

Oh, God, Hermione thought. What could that mean?

Sébastien suddenly relinquished his grasp on her, just when she thought she might be getting used to his proximity. He snapped his fingers and music began to play from a small speaker in the corner of the classroom. Sébastien resumed his position, but Hermione’s attention was still on the speaker.

“How did you do that?”

“Magic? Have you heard of it?”

“No,” Hermione said, giving her a meaningful look. “How are you using electronics in here? Magic interferes with muggle electronics.”

“Wherever did you get that idea?”

“They never worked at Hogwarts.”

“Really? Maybe Beauxbâtons is just a superior school. Did you ever try it?”

“Of course--” Hermione paused. Had she ever tried it? “No, I suppose I never tried. But _Hogwarts: A History_ \--”

“ _Hogwarts: A History_? Let me guess, that’s a book.”

“Yes, so what?”

“You can’t believe everything you read, my dear. Now, are we going to dance or are we going to stand here all day discussing the finer points of electrical engineering?”

Sébastien showed her the footwork of the waltz and once she had mastered that, began moving her around the room, counting as he went.

“Do you like music?”

“I suppose so,” Hermione so, focusing more on moving correctly rather than on the conversation at hand.

“Do you play any instruments?”

“No,” Hermione admitted. She wished she had dedicated more time to music. She knew some theory and could read music, but she had never really put the time to master an instrument. “Why?” she said, brightening a little. “Are you going to teach me that too?

“Because you don’t have any rhythm.”

Hermione lowered her hand from his shoulder and practically ripped her right hand from his own. She distanced herself from him.

“What? Just a little light teasing.”

Hermione turned.

“Hey! I get it; you can’t learn rhythm from a book.”

“You don’t have to act so superior all the time, just because you know more than me! You really think that’s why? Maybe I was busy! Maybe I had other things on my mind!” _Can’t really defeat the dark lord with a clarinet_.

“Hey. Relax. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Hermione defenses lowered. “Sorry, if I overreacted.” Looking at her watch, “I have to go anyway. My beauticians are waiting.”

Walking from the empty classroom, Hermione thought on how had she acted. Sébastien was probably right. She most likely had no sense of rhythm. It just irked her that she was not immediately perfect at something, as he had predicted. Moreover, did she not act in the same, self-satisfied way when someone knew less than her. He seemed to genuinely like her. Her chest tightened at the thought. She had every right to engage in a little harmless flirtation, but it still felt wrong.

Phœbé and Béatrice were already waiting at her door when Hermione finally reached her room. Béatrice was laden with an assortment of dresses while Phœbé seemed to be carrying a large makeup bag.

“Hurry up, girl,” Phœbé said. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Hermione sat in her desk chair, bracing for the worst.

“Don’t look so disappointed, Jean.”

“Oh, sorry, I’m not-- This isn’t about you helping me; I’m very thankful. I just, kind of a had a poor interaction with Seb.”

Looking at her vanity, Hermione could see her two friends making faces.

“What happened?” Béatrice asked, as Phœbé began applying foundation.

“I snapped at him when he gave me honest criticism. And then I stomped away.”

Béatrice placed her hands on her shoulders, locking eyes with Hermione through the mirror.

“Is that why you’re so troubled, dear? You can rest assured Sébastien won’t be angry with you. He can be a bit arrogant sometimes and has been met with similar responses. I’m sure he’s used to it by now.”

Hermione still felt uneasy. Béatrice knew Sébastien much better than she did and was likely not lying. So, what was still bothering her?

“Stop creasing your forehead so hard! You’re ruining all my hard work,” Phœbé complained.

“I’m sorry! I’m really sorry!”

“Relax, dear, we’re going to have fun tonight! I’m sure you won’t embarrass yourself at all.”

“Yes, because that will really make me feel better!”

The conversation ended there so Phœbé could begin the more difficult process of decorating Hermione’s eyes. This only left Hermione to dwell on her feelings once more, hopefully with less face-scrunching.

After being poked and prodded for almost an hour, Phœbé finally announced “Alright, you’re ready.”

“Now to choose your dress!” Béatrice said, excitedly clasping her fingers together. “No pressure, but Phœbé and I both like the green one the best.”

Really? What was with all this green? Though she was thankful that she did not have to wear any of her nicer dresses at the first, presumably least formal event of the year. Dresses her friends had been kind enough to buy her. And now she was being presented with a dress that her friends had been nice enough to let her borrow. A dress her friends picked out for her and offered to her after doing her makeup. Her stomach became even more knotted. Am I a bad person, she wondered. Not only was she ungrateful, she was lying non-stop to these wonderful women. She had not even begun dancing and she already wanted to throw up.

Hermione eyed the green garment. She had never worn much green and to her chagrin the dress was distinctly Slytherin green. Hermione would never be caught dead in that shade. Then again, I’m not really Hermione, am I? She picked it up and admired the cap sleeves and lace detailing and thankfully modest outline.

“Okay!” she said. What the hell, she thought. I should at least make a little effort after all they have done for me.

Her friends seemed pleased with her decision as she walked to her bathroom to slip it on. The fit was not exactly right, but Hermione mostly just wanted to get this whole ordeal over with. Zipper undone, she returned to enthusiastic clapping and cooing.

“Will one of you zip me up, please?”

Béatrice rushed forward to help her out.

“Are you not a witch?” Phœbé teased. “Why didn’t you just use your wand?”

“Uh… I forgot.”

“You forgot about being a witch?” Phœbé was circling her now, pulling on the fabric. “Béa, do you mind if I adjust this?”

Béatrice was now looking into the vanity, lining her eyes. “Yeah. Sure,” she said absent-mindedly between strokes.

Phœbé, wand in hand, flicked her wrist. Hermione felt the dress tighten, most noticeably around her bosom. Hermione looked down.

“You’ll thank me!” Phœbé said, picking up her own dress to change into.

Phœbé was not as shy as Hermione and began changing in front of both of them, but Hermione turned to give her some privacy. She had no idea what Phœbé meant but she had a funny feeling about it.

“You better not be thinking away all of my hard work, Jean!” Phœbé called, waking Hermione from her reverie.

She drew her attention to her friends. Béatrice had done in her hair in a knot and was wearing an elegant turquoise dress. Phœbé had left her hair down, but curled it slightly, so that her locks hung in waves. Hermione touched her own short hair, self-consciously, eyeing Phœbé’s floor-length, maroon gown.

“One final touch,” Béatrice said, poking Hermione in the head.

Rubbing her head, Hermione took a peek at her head and saw two glittering pins there. Despite the lifelong struggle with her hair, Hermione wondered if it had been a mistake to cut it nearly all off. Well, she thought, too late to worry about that now.

“Do you need more time to stare at yourself, Jean, or are you ready to go?”

Hermione looked at the clock on the wall, reconfirming her suspicions.

“Aren’t we a bit early, though?”

“That’s the problem with these parties, dear. We have to set them up and clean up,” Béatrice said.

“But remember you are a witch, so you can use magic,” Phœbé added with a wink.

Hermione followed her friends from her room, wondering if it was really obvious that she was Muggleborn and whether tonight would be a disaster or a total disaster. Once in the great room, she hid behind her friends and kept her eyes down, not daring to look at any of her other teachers. Following the movements of her friends, she blindly moved the tables away and added refreshments to the surrounding tables. As she was opening bottles of champagne, Hermione saw Sébastien out of the corner of her eye setting up his stereo. She watched him fiddle with the device, held captive by her fascination. She figured he must be doing some volume adjustment since there was no way something that small could successfully be heard in the such a large room. He turned in her direction, at which time she abruptly turned, frantically opening and pouring another bottle of champagne.

They had finished decorating and Hermione felt her pulse quicken. Fidgeting with her dress, Hermione stayed close to her friends, but they soon found dance partners. Soon she heard a cough behind her and she nearly jumped out of her flats. However when she turned to see the offending person, she was met with the characteristic grimace of the Dungeon Bat. He reached out his hand to her. Hermione thought she might have a heart attack right then and there.

“Uh…” Hermione started.

“Miss Gray, I believe this belongs to you.”

She looked down to see that he was not offering his hand to dance but rather to show a cork. Hermione gave her former professor a quizzical glance.

“In your haste with the champagne bottles, you hit me with this.”

Hermione’s hands flew to her mouth. “Sir, I’m so sorry.”

Looking again at his face, she noticed his right eye was beginning to discolor.

“What seems to be the problem here?”

The second last person Hermione wanted to see had joined their conversation.

“I--uh--”

“Miss Gray tried to blind me.”

“I’m sure she did not mean to, Rogue. She hasn’t even begun working with you, so she has no reason to harm you yet. Once she gets to know you, maybe,” Sébastien said, with a crooked smile. “If you follow me, I’ll give you some bruise paste.”

To her immense relief, Sébastien led Snape from the ballroom. She felt her shoulders droop, until she felt a tap on them.

“Would you care to dance?” the Herbology professor offered.

Hermione weighed her options and shook her head vigorously, perhaps a bit too readily, but Sébastien would not be gone long and she would not be able to dance with him if she was already dancing with someone else. She kept her eye on the entrance, waiting for his return. Soon, she realized that the Herbology professor had been trying to have a conversation with her.

“... and that’s why the Tibetan Turnip is my favorite species of the _Brassica_ genus.”

“Oh, yes, of course. My friend keeps Tibetan Turnips in his greenhouse,” she ad-libbed. She was sure Neville had mentioned them.

“Really? Who is he?”

“Oh. Well, you wouldn’t know him.”

“He must be well-connected to get his hands on Tibetan Turnips.”

“Now that you mention it, maybe he doesn’t have any. It’s hard to keep up with what he’s saying, he talks so animatedly!”

The look the Herbology professor gave her told Hermione that she was not getting another dance. Still she found a partner in the Astronomy, Arithmancy, and Ancient Greek professors. This time she focused more of her attention on the conversations at hand, hoping to make a good impression. It would be nice to make more friends, especially when she was interested in their subjects. However, her partners seemed only interested in asking her questions about herself.

After a dance with the cooking professor, Hermione was dragged from the dance floor by Béatrice.

“I’m so proud of you, dear! You were so nervous, yet here you are, dancing with everybody.”

“Yes, well...”

“Though I can’t help notice that you keep looking at the entrance. Waiting for someone in particular?” Béatrice teased.

Hermione laughed nervously, though she hoped it came across as more of a joking laugh.

“Don’t worry; you can tell me anything. I don’t gossip much.”

“No, I’m just worried Professor Rogue will… not return.”

“Oh, because you hit him in the eye with a cork? Yes, I saw that. He’s not much of a dancer so maybe he will use that as an excuse to not return.”

“That’s too bad,” Hermione said, rather lamely, though she knew she would still have to deal with him once lessons started.

“Hello, ladies.”

This time Hermione was sure that she jumped.

“Ah, Bastien, did you fix up Rogue?”

“Yes, indeed. He’ll return once the paste has worked its magic.”

Oh, well, Hermione thought. At least he seems content to ignore me.

“You should have seen Jean, Bastien. She was dancing with everyone.”

“Is that true?” Sébastien raised a brow. “So much for the theory that she’d be off by herself, eh?”

“Yes, well, I quite enjoy getting to know my colleagues.”

“Would you enjoy getting to know me?”

Hermione’s heart fluttered. That was quite forward. She did not immediately reach for his outstretched hand.

“Now you choose to be shy.”

Plucking up her Gryffindor courage, Hermione joined him on the dance floor.

“Listen, I’m sorry about earlier.”

“No, I’m sorry. I overreacted. You’re right. I don’t have any rhythm.”

Sébastien laughed. “I don’t know. After all that dancing, you’ve showed marked improvement.”

“Really?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“I don’t know. I hardly know you or your character.”

“Isn’t that why we’re dancing?”

“Dancing can hardly be considered a good measure of one’s character.”

“That’s too bad because I was thinking of asking you to be my co-teacher for ballroom.”

If Hermione had been drinking, she surely would have spit it out. That proposition came out of nowhere.

“Don’t look so incredulous! I need a partner to demonstrate and you’re a natural.”

“I’m a natural, am I? That’s not what you were saying earlier.”

“Like I said, all this practice has paid off. So, what do you say?”

Hermione bit her lip, gazing unfocused at the couples swirling beside her. Why was he pouncing this question on her now? Surely there was a better time.

“I’ve already checked your schedule and you are free then.”

She was dumbstruck The music stopped and with it, they did too. Hermione could feel her hands becoming slick with sweat, so Sébastien must have felt it too. She supposed she should be flattered. Either this man really did like her or he at least saw potential in her as a dance instructor. Or, a darker part of her thought, this was all part of an elaborate ruse to humiliate her. Hermione had not spent her entire life as a know-it-all not knowing that she was an easy target for ridicule.

“Would the lady care to dance?” a voice said behind her.

Sensing her opportunity, Hermione turned quickly to accept the man’s hand, but only after covertly--at least she hoped--wiping her moist hands on her dress. There was no reason she had to keep dancing with Sébastien, especially if he were to continue asking uncomfortable questions. Eyes locked onto her feet, Hermione instinctively brought her hands into position. It was only after a few spins she realized that she ought to at least look at her partner.

“Oh, sir.”

Snape raised an eyebrow at her. His eye no longer showed any sign of discoloration. Was an invitation to dance this punishment for the cork incident?

“Your eye looks better.”

“As much as it pains to admit it, Mr. Montclair is an... adequate potioneer.”

Only after he spoke did Hermione recognize the characteristic buzz of a Muffliato. Hermione nodded dumbly.

“Béa--Béatrice--Professor Martin said you don’t dance, but you dance quite well.”

“And you do not.”

Crestfallen, Hermione continued to move, or at least try, in time with the music.

“Professor Montclair said I was good enough to teach ballroom dancing with him.”

“And you trust this man?”

“He hasn’t shown me any reason not to.”

“Really? In the library, you implied that you couldn’t trust anyone here.”

Hermione stayed silent. The infuriating man was not wrong.

“You certainly looked thrilled to be dancing with him,” Snape added.

“He had just asked me about the teaching position. I was merely mulling it over.”

“Mulling it over? I only saw abject terror.”

“I’ll admit I was caught a bit by surprise.” Hermione looked him in the eye. “Why did you ask me to dance if you think I’m so terrible at it?”

“I simply wanted to say that no amount of partying will excuse you from being in my office at eight sharp tomorrow morning.”

Really? She had heard nothing from him these past couple of weeks and now he wanted to meet her at the crack of dawn after a night of drinking and dancing? He was truly an insufferable bastard.

Hermione was saved from further interacting with her former professor by the diminuendo. She scanned the room to find her target loitering by the champagne glasses. She did not know when she had been less confident in a decision.

“I’ve thought it over and…” Hermione was losing her nerve. “I would be honored to be your co-teacher.”

“Excellent,” he said, toasting her with his champagne glass, spilling none.

It was only after Sébastien replied in English that Hermione realized she must have been speaking her mother tongue as well. She hoped he did not find the decision too odd, but dismissed any concern since Sébastien used any opportunity to show off his English ability.

“Do you… want the next dance?”

“One dance with Rogue and you’re already coming back to me? Was he that bad?”

Yes, Hermione thought, you could say that.

“It’s a bit weird, isn’t it?” Sébastien asked her on the dance floor.

“What is?” Hermione asked after Sébastien provided no further explanation.

“Rogue.”

Hermione mentally rolled her eyes. She was done talking about her former professor. Sébastien continued.

“I’ve never seen him dance with anybody and out of nowhere, he asks you to dance.”

“We are to be working together. Perhaps he wanted to get to know me better and as you said, dancing is a social lubricant.”

Sébastien looked offended. “I said no such thing.”

“No, well, not in so many words, but that’s what you implied.”

“I didn’t say _lubricant_.”

Hermione laughed. Sébastien’s eyes crinkled.

“So, when are these classes?”

“Tuesdays and Thursdays, after lunch.”

“After lunch? Shouldn’t we wait a bit longer before we work out?”

“We won’t be doing the most strenuous exercise, but if you start to feel nauseated, tell me and I’ll hold your hair.”

Hermione thought that that might be just another odd thing uttered by Sébastien until she remembered her short hair. Sébastien was looking at her expectantly before she added, “oh, you were making a joke.”

“This is what I meant by you being funny. You’re so serious; it’s funny.”

Hermione spent the rest of the evening and night dancing with Sébastien and chatting with other teachers. As she walked from the hall, shoes in hand, she realized that she had not seen Snape the rest of the night.

“That was fun, wasn’t it? Wasn’t worth all of the grumbling?” Béatrice said, coming up behind her.

“No, I suppose not,” she admitted to Béatrice and to herself.

“And you didn’t even embarrass yourself that much.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You practically only danced with Sébastien!”

“No, I danced with everyone.”

“Okay, but you only danced with him after that. Are you crushing on a certain Potions Master?”

Hermione looked around wildly, praying that Sébastien was still chatting with the Herbology professor, out of earshot. Though, admittedly, she much preferred to be teased over Sébastien than _Snape_.

“Don’t worry. He’s not around. So, are you? You can trust me.”

Hermione laughed. “No, it was a practical matter, since I’m going to be teaching with him.”

“If that’s the case, then you ought to have danced with Rogue just as long.”

Hermione dropped her smile, but quickly recovered it. “Except I won’t be teaching dance with him.”

“Maybe he wished you were. He left just after you finished dancing with him.”

Hermione scrunched her eyebrows together, surely destroying all of Phœbé’s hard work.

“Not to mention that he’s never danced with anyone before.”

“You’re mistaken. He just wanted to give me a message.”

Or to make me mad. That was the Severus Snape she knew. Perhaps he saw her and Sébastien’s rapport and felt the need to interfere to make them both angry. After all, he seemed to dislike Sébastien, but he also seemed to be adept at hiding it.

Hermione made it to her room and threw off her clothes. Scrubbing her face and teeth, she slipped into a large t-shirt, before cuddling under her covers.

Awakened by the light and the beginnings of a throbbing headache, Hermione lay motionless, enjoying the warmth of her comforter and Crookshanks. Was there anything better than the feeling of having nowhere to go? And then, with a jolt, Hermione remembered that there was somewhere she was expected--Snape’s office. Pulling on a pair of rumpled jeans and almost breaking her ankle, Hermione searched furiously for a clean bra while brushing her teeth. Resigning herself to her strapless bra from the night before, Hermione dashed out the door just after slipping on a kind-of dressy v-neck, flats in hand.

Casting a quick Tempus charm, Hermione brought her pace to a run, cursing her choice of footwear from the night before and the blisters they had caused on her screaming feet.

“Miss Granger, glad to see you finally decided to join me.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay... You know how real life gets in the way (gosh, doesn't the real world know I have Harry Potter stuff to do???) and thanks for the nice reviews. Hopefully, I will be more regular from now on (hahaha). Also, I realized I named him Sebastien Clairmont in the first chapter but refer to him as Sebastien Montclair throughout the rest of it. Whoops.

Hermione was in no mood to engage--partly thanks to the growing, throbbing pain in her temples, and partly thanks to the growing, throbbing pain her old professor was becoming--so she remained silent. Pulling out the chair in front of his desk, she sat down and made no eye contact, choosing instead to look out a window. This was the wrong choice since the light only exacerbated her headache.

She squinted, waiting for him to start, yet he remained silent as well. Finally, she turned to face him, steeling her features, reminding herself that she was an adult and no longer an eager to please eleven-year-old. Her mental energy was wasted however, since Snape was busy looking at some papers on his desk.

_ Of course _ , Hermione thought,  _ I forgot how much he loves to remind me that I am not worth his time _ .

Hermione crossed and uncrossed her legs, shifted her weight in the chair, and stared at the map of Germany, Austria, and Switzerland hanging behind Snape’s desk before clearing her throat. Her former professor, meanwhile, was unfazed and had begun to write in the margins of the paper.

“Sir?” Hermione said softly.

No response.

“Sir,” she said, with a bit more force.

Still, he continued to scribble. She took an audible breath.

“ _ Snape _ ,” Hermione said, doing an impression of old schoolmates’ disdain for the name.

Finally his dark eyes met her own. His face was unreadable. He did not seem unhappy that she had spoken in such a rude manner, but then again, he certainly was not pleased either.

_ When is this man ever happy? _ Hermione smiled at the thought.  _ Oh, yes, only when he is hurling insults at little girls with already low self-esteem. _

“Is something the matter,  _ Granger _ ?”

“Why would I drag myself out of bed at this ungodly hour if I’m just going to sit here?” Hermione said, not realizing how angry she had become.

Snape gave her a pointed look before setting down his fountain pen

_ Bastard _ , she thought.

Hermione nearly jumped when he locked eyes with her, as if he heard the epithet. He interlocked his fingers and set his elbows on the table.

“Why would I start our meeting on time if you yourself are not going to respect it with punctuality?” 

Hermione took a deep breath. Perhaps this was all a plan to set her over the edge so he could complain and get her fired. Or, at the very least, get her removed from this co-teaching position. A part of her briefly considered indulging that desire. But a greater part of her recognized that would be exactly what he wanted and she was in no mood to do as this man pleased.

“Look, sir,” she said, trying to return to some sort of cordiality, “if now is not a good time, we can reschedule.”

She prayed her desire to be rid of him was not too obvious. Yes, she wanted him to know she found his presence unbearable, but not enough that he was winning by getting under her skin.

“Absolutely not,” he said sternly. “The students are arriving tomorrow and we need some semblance of a plan.”

“Yes, that what I said from the very beginning! So why could we not have met sooner?”

“We could have.” Snape leaned back in his chair. “I never heard anything from you about wanting to meet.”

“Heard anything from me? You’re the senior teacher! And based on that first and only meeting, it made it seem like you had no intention of helping me. Then you tell me about meeting when we’re,” Hermione took a calming breath before saying the next word, “dancing and it’s for the next morning after a late night? I know you don’t want to work with me and trust me, I don’t either, but could have probably made it easier on yourself by at least trying to cooperate with me.”

Despite the fury that was sure to be written on his face after her outburst, Hermione returned her gaze to his face. To her surprise, however, he was not mad. Or even annoyed. She could not immediately place his mood and before she could decipher it, his features returned to their typical, impassive mien. Hermione quickly dropped her gaze, wondering if she was letting her anger get to her head again. It was then she noticed he was only wearing a white dress shirt, of which the top two buttons were undone. His usual cravate was absent, leaving the angry red scar visible on his neck. In that moment, she almost felt bad for the infuriating man. Almost. But why had he not covered it up? He had known she would be coming. Sure, he must have known that she knew of its existence, but Snape did not seem the man to bear his scars to people.

“Look,” he said, “I never planned on you helping me teach.”

“Well, that’s ridiculous. There aren’t enough hours in the day--”

“Because I did not think you would still be here for the start of the term.”

Hermione snorted. What kind of excuse was this? Was he expecting her to suffer some horrific incident? The accident would have to have been fatal, because there was little--besides the man in front of her--from her accomplishing what she had came here to do.

“Equally ridiculous. Have I ever been shown as someone to go back on her word?” Hermione said, feeling her pulse quicken.

“No.”

“Exactly. Why don’t you just tell me the real reason you’ve been avoiding me?”

“I don’t know why you would think I am lying to you, but if you want brutal honesty, I’ll give it to you.”

“Why would I want anything but honesty?”

“Suit yourself, Granger. I was trying to be nice.”

_ And you were doing such a splendid job _ , she thought.

“Why did you come here?” he asked.

“Why are you asking me questions? I thought you were going to tell me something,” she answered, growing annoyed.

“Why did you come here?” Snape repeated.

“I thought we established this was none of your business.”

“I thought we were being honest with each other.”

“I said I wanted honesty from you. I never said anything about honesty from me.”

“And therein lies the problem, doesn’t it? Why are you, Hermione Granger, ‘brightest witch of her age,’ here? You don’t belong here and you know it. You’re just not being honest with yourself.”

“I don’t belong here?” Hermione laughed forcefully. “Why are you, Severus Snape, inveterate child hater, here? You don’t need to be teaching. The war’s over. You did your job.”

“You want the truth?”

“Yes.”

“It’s none of your fucking business. And that’s the truth.”

“Likewise.”

“Well, that’s the difference between you and me, isn’t it? I already know why you’re here. I just want to hear it from you, so maybe you’ll understand that I’m right, that you don’t belong here.”

“You’re bluffing.”

Snape rolled his eyes.

“Maybe I am. But it’s just as you said; clearly the war never ended for me. I never stopped being a spy. It’s a spy’s job to know.” 

He said the last bit with such condescension that it made her skin crawl. Hermione rolled her eyes. The exit was becoming more and more enticing. She was not his student, but an equal now. She did not have to continue suffering the Dungeon Bat’s posturing. She  _ did not belong here? What the hell did he know anyway?  _ Hermione moved to get up. 

“Where are you going? We still have work to do,” Snape said, closing his eyes and putting his hands on his temples.

She  _ was giving him a headache now? _

“I did not come here to be berated for my life choices, which, by the way,  _ is none of your fucking business _ . We do have work to do, but you don’t seem keen on starting any time soon,” Hermione said, standing.

“If I recall correctly, you got us on this tangent.”

Hermione had pushed in the chair and Snape was leaning forward on his elbows, his own annoyance becoming evident.

“No, you did. Why couldn’t you just be professional and start when I got here? I know you don’t care about being a good teacher--”

Snape was standing up now, but Hermione was already turning toward the door.

“Look, I will just come back later when we’ve both had a chance to cool off,” she said, barely looking at him.

“No. First, you insinuate that I hate children and then you tell me I don’t care about teaching the students.”

“Oh, so, you’re telling me that you don’t hate children? Or just people, in general?”

“I was a spy. And I taught an extremely dangerous subject. How did you want me to act?”

“I don’t know. Maybe like you actually wanted to be there.”

“Maybe I didn’t.”

“So, you could’ve left at any time.”

“Do you really think either of my masters would’ve allowed that?”

Hermione did not answer immediately. He was right, of course.

“Was I that poor of a teacher? Did you learn nothing?”

Perhaps her headache was causing her to imagine things, but she thought she could almost detect a note of hurt in his voice. Maybe she was being too harsh on him. But maybe he was also manipulating her, her inner cynic thought.

“No.” Hermione said the next part much quieter. “But you could’ve been nicer.”

“Nicer?” 

The sneer had returned. Evidently she had not had to worry about hurting his feelings, if even for a split second. 

”So, you think I wasn’t a good teacher because I did not heap praise upon you and the rest of your cohort? Tell me, did you even enjoy learning, or did you want to know more than everyone else to provide you with some sort of external validation?”

“I don’t have to deal with this.”

“And yet you do. You signed up to be a teacher yourself and now you have to deal with the consequences: teaching with me.”

Hermione considered at the man leaning over his desk. Despite his current position, Snape was still taller than her. He was right, of course, and she should have been more prepared to deal with perhaps the most difficult man she had ever known. He would most likely continue to be difficult, but that did not mean she had to accept defeat, right?  

“Alright. I suppose you’re right. But if it’s like you said, you already know why I am here and don’t need my explanation. So, let’s just continue.”

Snape sniffed. Hermione began unloading her notes onto the table, desperate to get out of that room even faster than before. Snape had sat back down and seemed, at least for the time being, to have given up.

The two began their discussion in earnest, with Snape doing most of the talking. Hermione conceded the floor to him and agreed to almost everything he said, since she was not only the junior teacher, but also hoped to placate him. She was fairly confident he would not notice so much if she were to change some aspects part way through the year.

When they finally finished, Hermione could tell her heart had slowed. She knew that she would probably sleep better that night now that finally she had some semblance of a plan for her French-learners.

The rest of the morning continued in a blurr, Hermione lost in her thoughts about that morning and the year to come as scenes and conversations happened around her. At lunch, she sat with her friends, but could not seem to focus on them or follow anything they were saying. Perhaps it was the stress of the fight with Snape or maybe it was just her brain refusing to French at the moment. 

“Do you think Étienne and Estelle will still be together?” she heard Béatrice say.

“No, definitely not,” Phœbé said.

Hermione had no idea who these people were. Mutual friends, fictional characters in a book series she had not read, or possibly even the first names of professors she had not yet learned.

“Are you sure? You should have seen them--” Béatrice responded, leaning closer to Phœbé, a piece of chicken impaled on her fork. 

“I’m sorry, Jean. We’re excluding you,” Phœbé interrupted.

She almost forgot that she should be responding to “Jean,” but luckily Phœbé had looked right at her when she said it.

“No, it’s fine. I’m having an off kind of day anyway and I don’t want to spoil your fun. You can keep talking about it.”

Hermione was not sure if she really felt like talking much anyway.

“Well,” Béatrice said, pointing her now empty fork at Hermione. “This ‘fun,’ as you so aptly put it, doesn’t have to not include you. We’re always looking for new participants. More money in the pot will sweeten the deal.”

She was not following their conversation at all.

“They bet on which couples will still be standing when the term starts,” Sébastien explained, likely noting her blank look.

“Who?” Hermione asked.

“The students,” Sébastien said with a disdainful look at their colleagues.

“Teachers know about that stuff?”

Everyone burst out laughing at Hermione’s question. She reddened, not only from embarrassment of her ignorance but also at the horror of realizing her professors had speculated about her own teenage love life.

“Being a teacher isn’t always as interesting as you would think,” Phœbé said. “And trust us, most of the time we wouldn’t like to know but these hormone-fueled adolescents, more often than not, make it impossible for us not to know.”

“You make real money bets on the outcomes of your students’ relationships? Is that ethical?” Hermione asked with an almost morbid curiosity.

“Well, when you put it that way,” Béatrice started, but was interrupted by a much louder Sébastien.

“It’s not much of a bet anyway. Young love never lasts.”

The conversation ended there. Clearly Sébastien's disapproval was enough to keep the older women silent. Hermione did want to know more, but perhaps it was better for her not to realize how much Dumbledore and McGonagall and, though she shuddered to think of it, Snape had known about her and her friends’ petty squabbles and stupid love triangles.

“How was your meeting with Herr Big and Scary?” Sébastien after they had finished their lunch.

Phœbé and Béatrice had already left, the reason for their earlier departure had been lost on Hermione, still deep in thought. She and Sébastien were now walking together, seemingly having found themselves going in the same direction.

“Hm?” Hermione asked, still running at only half-processing speed even though Sébastien had spoken to her in her mother tongue. “Oh, you mean Professor Rogue?” She smiled to herself. It was not quite as poetic as Dungeon Bat but she supposed it worked well enough for his current position. “It was fine. Boring really.”

“I don’t think anyone has ever called that man ‘boring,’” Sébastien said with a small laugh. “Maybe for you though, the most interesting girl in the world.”

Hermione thought on her choice of words. He truly was boring, wasn’t he? After all this time and he was still as much of a miserable bastard as ever. Two wars later and one would think that he would have grown, even a little.  _ But some people just don’t change _ , she thought.

“How interesting can lesson planning be?” she added.

“Why don’t I show you?”

Hermione crossed her arms and quirked an eyebrow.

“Really?”

“What? I don’t get points for smoothest segue ever? And we do need to plan,” Sébastien said, running his hands through his hair.

“We? I don’t need to plan anything. You are doing all of the legwork,” Hermione said, pointing at her companion. “I am just there to be your partner.”

“On the contrary, we’ll be dancing so, naturally you will performing a bit of legwork.”

Hermione laughed despite herself. She had really walked into that one.

“You’re lucky we’re speaking English. That would not have worked in French!”

Sébastien stopped short, chin in hand, feigning concentration. “No, you’re right. I cannot think of an adequate French equivalent.”

“Score one for the English language!”

“I’ll give you that one. But only because at the end of the day we can all agree on which language is the most beautiful.”

“What? You mean, like, Italian?” Hermione teased.

“You’re lucky I need you or else I would not hesitate to hex you where you stand.”

“I would like to see you try.”

They reached the dance classroom. While waiting for Sébastien to come back from the supply closet, Hermione considered herself in the mirrors, feeling suddenly self-conscious. She wondered how she would fare in front of a group of children. Or how she would handle teaching students at all. Her chest grew tight. Oh, Merlin, what was she doing? Was she over her head? _ Maybe Snape was right _ , she thought bitterly.  _ Maybe I don’t belong here. _

“Hello? Where have you gone?”

Hermione refocused her eyes and turned to smile at Sébastien. He was holding the stereo.

“Sorry, just thinking,” Hermione said, pushing up her glasses.

“A dangerous pastime. I hope you don’t do it too often.”

Sébastien was no longer looking at her, but was bent over fiddling with the music player.

“No, hardly ever,” she replied with a smile.

The music had begun. She was not an expert in genres but the song was uptempo and fully instrumental. Sébastien clasped his hands together and stepped closer to Hermione. 

“Shall we get started?”

“And how’s that?” Hermione asked coyly.

“By dancing, of course. I don’t think it’s fair for you to stand up in front of a group of sniggering children without giving you some practice first.”

“I thought we were  _ planning _ the lessons, not  _ practicing _ ,” Hermione said, knowing full well that she needed all the practice she could get.

“Well, I’ve already got them planned. Waltz, Viennese waltz, tango, foxtrot, quickstep, schottische, polka, rumba, paso doble, samba,” Sébastien said, listing the dances on his hands. “And those are just the Muggle dances. Actually, maybe we should’ve started practicing sooner.”

“So, you just invited me here to insult me,” she said, in mock disbelief.

“Hey, I’m offering you a chance to not embarrass yourself. You know what they say about first impressions. Plus, you know how cruel children are. I’m sure your classmates had plenty of kind names for your teachers. Do you want to be known as Professor Two Left Feet for the rest of your tenure?”

Hermione signaled her acquiescence by placing her hand on the wizard’s shoulder and intertwining their fingers. Sébastien began leading her around the room, sharing words of correction and encouragement as they went.

“I don’t know,” Hermione said, out of the blue.

Sébastien who had been previously focused on her footwork, looked up at her.

“You don’t know what?”

“Professor Two Left Feet--it’s not nearly quippy enough.”

“Is that so? What would you have them call you then?”

Hermione sucked in through her teeth, before adding, “Oh, I don’t know. I’m not a cruel child.”

“Really? Were you not once though?”

Hermione shook her head. 

“No, not ever. At least not to my teachers. Then again, I practically worshipped them. I would even defend them to my peers, even when they probably didn’t deserve it.”

“I’m sure you were fun to be around,” Sébastien said.

Hermione laughed.

“I think I’m mature and self-aware enough to know I was a regular stick in the mud. What about you? What were you like at school? I bet you were a real charmer.”

Immediately regretting her choice of words, Hermione stared at her feet, forcing herself to think about the steps and hoping it was enough to not her turn her cheeks scarlet. Sébastien, however, seemed unperturbed, when she heard him laugh and then sigh.

“I don’t think so. I wasn’t as popular as you might suppose.”

At first this response seemed to Hermione to be the end of that conversation and the best possible outcome--she evidently had not said something as awkward as she had initially feared. But then she heard Sébastien breathe in and her eyes were drawn to his. 

“I only had one friend; we both grew up the same small town. And when we got to school, we were inseparable. But she was much more personable than me. Well, I guess that’s putting it lightly. The sway she held over people--it’s like she was magnetic. Naturally she had friends other than me. Still, she always made an effort to include me. Then we got older and the dynamic changed. We started dating.” Sébastien sighed. “Looking back, I don’t know why she agreed to it. Maybe it just felt like an inevitably.”

“What happened then?” Hermione said, after an excruciating silence. But she said it just quietly enough that if he did not want to answer, he could pretend he had not heard. Selfishly, however, she hoped he would continue.

“She goes to England once.” Sébastien removed his hand from Hermione’s waist to punctuate his point with a raised index finger. “One time. And she tells me she doesn’t love me anymore. And just like that, she’s gone out of my life and moving to be closer to an Englishman that she’d just met.

“That’s why I studied at Cambridge. I wanted to be close to her. I was pathetic. I knew where she worked and would make frequent trips there on the off-chance I would see her. But, she, kind as ever, was never rude to me when our paths did cross, which is more than I ever deserved. I deserved to be called out for the stalker I was. But still, I held out hope that she would grow tired of her English boyfriend and come back to me.

“Then, one summer day following my third year at university, I see her and she’s as radiant as ever, beaming from ear to ear, and she tells me--” Sébastien sighed for a third time. “She tells me she’s getting married to this Englishman and she would be honored to have me, her best friend at her wedding. She even told me she had convinced her fiancé to let me be one of his groomsmen.

“So, how did I react? After moving all that way just to be near her? After harassing her at her job? I didn’t say anything, just walked away. I walked away and never saw her again. I guess that was the final straw for me; her engagement was the wake up call I needed. I received a wedding invitation by owl shortly after and when I didn’t respond, one by post as well. I knew I had behaved abominably but I could not bring myself to watch the woman I thought I loved get married to someone else. I finished my studies a semester early and returned to France, vowing to never step on that island ever again.

“I’m sorry. You didn’t ask for that. I just never told anyone that story before,” Sébastien said, rubbing the back of his neck. Despite his emotion-filled story, it was only then that he stopped twirling Hermione about the room.

“You don’t have to apologize. I’m--” Hermione searched for the correct word. “It’s nice that you felt comfortable enough to tell me.”

Hermione winced, still not sure that was the right thing to say. Not many people had confessed such personal stories to her, so she had no experience on how to properly respond.

“Is that why you hate the English?” Hermione asked, hoping to diffuse the tension with a joke, which was an equally risky move she realized belatedly.

“I hate the English because I’m French.” Sébastien said, rewarding her efforts with a smile. “But that certainly helps. And I don’t hate all of the English. I think some may have won me over.”

“Why do you only speak English to me? And don’t just say it’s because I can’t speak French; our colleagues understand me just fine.”

“You know I’m just teasing you. I wouldn’t look too deeply into it.”

Hermione must have appeared hurt because Sébastien followed his comments up by adding, “I don’t mean to offend. I also relish the opportunity to practice it with a native speaker; I was getting afraid of growing rusty. And did you know? A Muggle medical study found knowing a second language could delay the onset of Alzheimer’s by four years?”

“No, I didn’t know that. Although I don’t make a habit of reading Muggle medical journals.”

“Well, you should,” Sébastien joked.

They had begun dancing anew. This time Hermione did not look at her feet or even really have to think about the steps.

“Do wizards even get Alzheimer’s?” Hermione asked.

“Now that, that I don’t know.”

“Really? You don’t know? I thought you knew everything.”

“I thought  _ you _ knew everything,” Sébastien said, surprising Hermione with a dip.

\-----

The following morning Hermione was amazed at how refreshed she felt when she woke. Her “planning” session with Sébastien had instilled new confidence in her and they really seemed to be becoming good friends. Snape was wrong; she did belong here and her blooming friendships with the other teachers was proof of that.

Hurrying to the dining area for breakfast, Hermione checked and triple-checked her chosen outfit. Sébastien’s words about first impressions were echoing in her mind and she had chosen something that hopefully indicated open and warm, but also firm. She wondered, then, what Sébastien’s first impressions of her had been. Were they good? What about her other colleagues? She knew Snape must still be tainted by his original idea of her, a book-quoting know-it-all, desperate for approval. Hermione shook her head. Was it even worth it to disabuse him of these notions? No, she could recognize a lost cause when she saw one.

“Someone’s up early.”

Hermione nearly jumped out of skin when she heard his voice behind her. Thankfully it was only Sébastien, who might still tease her for scaring easily, but she would rather be made fun of by a friend anyway.

“I guess I was too excited to sleep,” Hermione said with a shrug.

In truth she had no clue when she was supposed to arrive for breakfast on the first day, but decided to err on the earlier side.

“Breakfast doesn’t officially start for another ten minutes and we probably won’t see another soul until quarter of,” Sébastien said, after wordlessly casting a Tempus charm.

They walked through the gilded archway together.

“I stand corrected. Someone else is here.”

Hermione scanned the room until her eyes fell upon the dark figure sitting alone on the opposite side of the room.

“We should sit with him.”

Hermione shook her head vigorously, hoping her diametric opposition was not too suspicious.

“It would be gauche not to! He’s the only other person in the room,” Sébastien said, seemingly unaware of her discomfort.

Hermione relented, hoping that since Sébastien was there, her former professor would be on his best behavior.

“Good morning, Robert.”

Hermione held in a snort. His name was  _ Robert Rogue _ ? Would he die if his name did not alliterate?

“Good morning, Mr. Montclair. Miss Grey,” Snape said, giving her a nod, but quickly returning to his morning paper.

“Big day, eh?” Sébastien said, evidently ignoring Snape’s cue that he wanted to be left alone. “It’s like the first day of school all over again. Well, I suppose it technically is.”

Hermione stared down at her hands in her lap, praying desperately for the conversation to end. Why couldn’t they have just sat by themselves? She did not feel comfortable bantering with Sébastien in front of Snape.  _ Is that weird _ , she thought?  _ No, it’s probably just because Snape hated fun and would probably glare at us the entire time _ .

“Are you nervous? I must admit I’m still a bit nervous,” Sébastien said, continuing to talk despite everyone else’s reticence.

Hermione bit into a piece of toast, never having been grateful for a warm slice of bread to have magically appeared before her. Still, she nodded her agreement.

“What about you, Robert?” Sébastien asked, his own piece of toast in hand.

Snape remained engrossed in his paper.

“No, surely not. I believe you’ve been teaching longer than either of us has been alive, isn’t that right?”

Hermione made a horrible choking noise and she fumbled for her coffee. Taking a large gulp, she burned her mouth but avoided making an even larger fool of herself. Why was Sébastien provoking Snape? And so early in the morning?

Snape, for his part, seemed unfazed.

“Ha,” Hermione laughed forcefully. “Professor Rogue doesn’t look a day over forty.”

Hermione was not sure why she was complimenting him, but she hoped it would tamper the temper Snape possessed. She was complimenting him, right? How old was he, again? Was he older or younger than her parents? Hermione hoped that he actually was at least forty.

“Sorry to bother you, sir. We’ll sit somewhere else,” she added when Snape still did not look up from his paper.

“Sir?” Sébastien asked incredulously. “Why don’t I receive such a level of formality?”

Hermione was standing up, as a less than subtle indication that she wanted Sébastien to join her. Sébastien, for his part, remained rooted in his seat.

“Because Professor Rogue is, uh, a more senior professor.”

“You just said he didn’t look a day over forty.”

Hermione cast a withering look at her companion. At this rate, she was going to have to sit by herself at the opposite end of the room.

“Miss Grey,” Snape said, at last. “I appreciate what you’re doing, but thanks to my decades of teaching experience, I am adept at handling  _ children _ . Besides, you and I have things we can discuss.”

Hermione sat back down, embarrassment creeping into her cheeks. Snape had put down the newspaper and took a sip of his steaming, black coffee. Too mortified to get a good look at him earlier, Hermione saw now that he was just in his shirtsleeves, cravate missing, shirt slightly unbuttoned like the other day, but the scar was hidden, likely under a glamour. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but closed it soon after, dumbstruck by her former professor.

“How many students will be in your class?” Sébastien asked, clearly pleased he had gotten Snape to talk.

“Eleven,” Snape said. “Five from Spain, four from Portugal, one from the Netherlands, and one from Belgium.”

“How exciting for us and for them. I hope they have a wonderful time. Although I can’t see why not since they will have such a wonderful teacher.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said at the same time as Snape.

Sébastien laughed while Hermione silently chastised herself for assuming he had meant her. She had not even taught one class yet, who was to say she would be any good?

“Glad to see you’re both so confident in your abilities. Nice change of pace from yesterday, eh?” Sébastien directed that last remark at Hermione.

Hermione just nodded, happy to leave it at that. To her horror, however, Sébastien continued.

“Yesterday we were reviewing the waltz and she was a ball of nerves at first. It was pretty cute--”

Hermione did not hear the rest of what Sébastien said. She could not think. Sébastien had called her “cute” in front of Snape and she wanted nothing more than to be hiding somewhere, like maybe under the table.

The rest of the teachers had begun filtering in and Hermione excused herself from the table as soon as she saw Béatrice and Phœbé enter the room. Perhaps she had misheard or maybe the word had a different connotation in French. In any case, she had suffered in awkwardness long enough and her friends were a good as excuse as any to relieve her torture.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the nice comments and kudos!

Other teachers had begun to trickle in for breakfast when Hermione excused herself from Snape’s and Sébastien’s company. She had caught sight of her other friends and made a beeline for their usual table, reaching it before they had.

“Good morning,” said Béatrice, looking as ebullient as ever. “Don’t you look lovely today!”

“Good morning,” Hermione replied sheepishly, as her friends took their seats.

“Coffee’s a bit strong this morning. I think someone wants us awake and alert today,” her blonde friend said as she poured Hermione a cup. “You want one, Phœb?”

Phœbé shook her head. She was not paying attention to Hermione or Béatrice, but rather seemed engrossed in her nails.

“Caffeine makes her anxious,” Béatrice explained. “She’s high-strung enough as it is.”

Hermione reconsidered the dark-haired woman across the table.  _ She _ was high-strung? She certainly did not look it. Everything about her seemed effortless. Hermione supposed the old adage was right: appearances can be deceiving. Fiddling with the handle of her mug, Hermione wondered if she should stop at one cup of coffee. Her stomach was beginning to churn. Was it the beverage, the day, or the weird interaction she just had with Sébastien and Snape, or a synergy of all three? Maybe her friends could enlighten her.

“This may sound weird, but what kind of…  _ relationship _ does Sébastien have with Professor Rogue?”

Phœbé looked up from her hands to share a look with her blonde companion. The question, Hermione realized, was a little out of left field, especially after they had been sharing anecdotes about the world’s favorite brown liquid.  

“ _ Relationship _ ? What do you mean?” Phœbé asked, probably searching for clarity in a bizarre inquiry.

“How is their rapport? Would you say they are close?” Hermione continued.

“No, they’re not close at all,” Béatrice said. “In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen them interact before.”

Hermione was surprised. Or, perhaps, it was not surprising at all. Sébastien could just act like that with everyone. Maybe his behavior around Snape was, in fact, normal, especially if he was not already aware of how much of a irritable bastard the Dungeon Bat could be. His flirtatious attitude could be an extension of his desire to get a rise out of people. Yes, this line of reasoning could explain everything and tie it up with a neat little bow. And yet, had he not commiserated with Hermione over her former professor’s crotchety disposition?

“Why? Did something happen?” Béatrice asked.

“You were having breakfast with them,” Phœbé said.

“Yes,” Hermione said.

She was unsure of how to continue. Did she trust these women? Her instinct told her that she could, but what if they were closer to Sébastien and relayed her concerns to him? What if she was overreacting and they would use this to laugh about behind her back? They seemed to gossip about their students regularly. Hermione had never had many female friends, so she was potentially wading deep into uncharted territory. Still, there were few people here Hermione could talk to. If she was going to survive at Beauxbâtons and make it her home, there had to be someone she could confide in. She supposed if they did end up laughing at her, at least she was making them happy. Taking the plunge, she explained the incident that had just occurred.

“Men can be so unprofessional,” Phœbé said, as if this was nothing new and something similar had happened to her.

Hermione did not know whether to be comforted by this fact or worried.

“That does sound like Bastien though. Always poking the bear,” Béatrice added.

“Yes, but it is not surprising that Robert would not react,” Phœbé said, returning her focus to her nails. “I have not known him to be anything but level-headed; he was likely taking everything in stride.”

Hermione wanted to say to the dark-haired witch that surely she did not mean Mr. Fly-off-the-Broom-Handle-at-the-Slightest-Provocation, but she also knew better than to imply that she knew the man at all. Snape was also a notorious two-faced snake, so calm, cool, and collected could be his latest modus operandi.

“What about the ‘cute’ thing?” Hermione said, trying to sound distant and unbothered. “I’m overreacting, aren’t I? It probably got lost in translation or something, right?”

“Well…” Béatrice started. “It is always hard to know someone’s intent fully; you can understand how it made you feel. If he made you uncomfortable, one of us can talk to him for you.”

Hermione considered the offer for a moment, but said, “Thank you, but, no, I don’t think that will be necessary. Thank you again though.”

Béatrice gave a wide smile and Hermione had no doubt about its genuineness. It was an immense relief, but also filled her with her guilt. These women would not betray her trust and it probably spoke ill of her own character to think them so petty. If anything, she was the one who should be held in suspicion. After all, was she not herself constantly lying about who she was?

Breakfast finished, words of encouragement uttered, and nerves frazzled, Hermione walked to her and Snape’s classroom. The knot in her stomach was making her wonder if it would have been better for her to stay in London. Another part of her, perhaps her Gryffindor heart, told her that discomfort was good and it meant she was moving beyond her comfortable little bubble towards personal growth. Still, her inner cynic, the tiny Slytherin voice in the back of her mind, could not help but to ask,  _ is deceiving others part of that growth _ ? 

Once inside, Hermione began compulsively tidying up the room, deep in thought. So lost was she in her own little world, that she did not recognize she was no longer the only person in the room.

“You would make a horrible spy,” an entirely too familiar voice said.

“That would hurt my feelings if I were actually trying to be a spy,” Hermione said, still half-cloistered in her anxious mind. “And, no, I am no mood to hear how dumb I am for coming here.”

“Miss Granger,” Snape began.

Hermione waited for him to continue, to belittle her and to make her second guess every decision she had ever made, but those harsh words did not come. She looked to where she had heard his voice, considering for a moment that, perhaps, he had decided to leave her alone. To her chagrin, however, he was standing there, now dressed in his full attire--cravat, waistcoat and everything else.

“I suppose I should apologize for how I behaved yesterday,” he continued only once she had made eye contact.

Hermione supposed she should be shocked that her former professor would be apologizing to her, but experience told her that it would not simply end with the apology. There would be a ‘but’ or he would reveal his angle or maybe, he was just lying through his teeth.

“I’m sorry if I made it seem like I don’t want you here,” Snape said, carefully, like he had rehearsed it.

“You don’t,” Hermione said, under her breath.

“I should have just kept my opinions to myself,” he said, apparently ignoring Hermione.

_ There it is. He’s not apologizing for for what he said, only that he said it out loud. _

“If I truly knew your character as well as I have claimed to, I should’ve known someone as stubborn as you would never give up that easily.”

“I’m not--” Hermione began, but stopped, realizing how fruitless it was to argue with someone as stubborn as  _ him _ .

Snape cleared his throat. “I suppose we should get to work.”

“We? Work?” Hermione asked, having hoped he would soon be gone from her sight.

“Yes, why do you think I came here?”

“To apologize,” she said, crossing her arms. “At least, ostensibly,” she added.

“I did not think you would take it very well if I barged in here and told you to do a final bit of planning,” Snape said, taking a step closer.

_ And what was your plan had I not accepted your apology? _

“At breakfast I told you we still had more to do. You, for whatever reason, decided you did not have to stick around for that conversation,” he said with a smirk.

“Sorry,” she said, the edge in her voice hopefully undetectable to Snape.

_For whatever reason? He knows_ exactly _why I left, doesn’t he?_ _Curse him._

Despite her misgivings, she relented and even offered her former professor the nice chair at the desk at the front of their classroom, while she summoned a student’s chair to sit beside him. She would have preferred to sit opposite him, but this particular desk was fairly large, forcing her into his proximity. Initially, she had held her breath, doubting his hygiene habits, but to her surprise, he smelled good? His scent was distinct, pungent, but hard to place. It was warm, masculine, and--she hated to admit it--inviting.

_ Focus, Hermione, and stop sniffing your teacher _ .  _ Merlin,  _ she thought _ , why do I have to be so weird? _

“I think that’s as much as we can get done for now,” Snape said, after a while of last minute preparations.

Hermione looked at the clock hung at the back of the classroom--already time for lunch. Surely that much time had not passed? She briefly considered that the clock must be wrong, the magic controlling it having worn off, but the light coming through the windows told her otherwise.

After returning the too small chair to its original position, Hermione walked to the door. Intellectually, she had understood that Snape would be accompanying her to the midday meal, but it was another thing entirely to see him there, standing beside her. She was suddenly overcome with panic--what would they talk about? However Snape seemed content with the silence as the two walked. Hermione supposed that would be for the best. There was not much to say anyway.

At lunch, Hermione could barely eat. Her stomach had become even more tangled and did not seem amenable to accepting food. Throughout the meal she also found her eyes wandering to look at her former professor, who had chosen to sit on the opposite side of the room, while Hermione joined her usual companions, already occupying their usual table. Initially she had thought it was strange that she found her attention drawn to him, but she reminded herself that they would be spending the year together, working in tandem. She was also curious as to what prompted his apology and overall change in disposition around her. Maybe, he had finally gotten it through his stubborn head that it would be easier to go with the flow and at least try to be polite.

Untouched sandwich still on her plate, Hermione watched as her fellow teachers stood up and left the hall. Her tablemates were also getting up and pushing in their chairs. She followed them, palms sweating. She took measured breaths and was constantly reminding herself that she had survived much worse. When she looked up from her feet, she saw that Snape was standing at the entrance, presumably waiting for her. Hermione remembered then that he had mentioned they would be welcoming the new students together. This provided her with mixed feelings as she exited the chateau. On one hand, that meant spending more time with the Snape, but on the other hand, it would be nice to not be alone.

Hermione and Snape stood off to the side while the other professors stood on the grand stairway as a group. Rather than loading the students onto a train, parents brought their children directly to the school. Surrounded by hugs and tearful goodbyes, Hermione could not help but be reminded of her own separation from her parents. The telltale sting in her eyes meant that she herself was about to cry. She looked up at the sky, hoping to stem the flow of tears, lest her colleagues and future students think she was a nut for openly weeping without apparent cause.

The older children walked straight through the throng, up the stairs, and past the professors, while the first years collected with the teachers. A woman with a small girl in tow approached Hermione and Snape--their first pupil. The woman, who Hermione suspected of being the girl’s mother, began conversing to Snape in rapid Spanish. Concentrating hard, Hermione tried to understand snippets, but her comprehension was still at a very basic level. To her surprise, Snape responded with equal rapidity. This was most likely not her first child to attend Beauxbâtons, Hermione guessed, since the mother already knew she could speak to and be understood by the Dungeon Bat.

Snape bowed a little and shook the small girl’s hand, smiling warmly all the while. Hermione caught the name--Ximena, it sounded like--which she thought she remembered seeing on the class list. Then, to her horror, they turned to her, her face likely still creased from struggling to follow the conversation. Frozen, Hermione tried to remember “nice to meet you” and “my name is” in Spanish, but Snape did most of the talking. She just shook both of their hands, probably looking like an idiot. This cycle repeated ten more times, each one hopefully less awkward than the previous.

When all of their tiny charges were accounted for, Snape led them into the castle, single-file with Hermione taking up the rear. Hermione watched their faces light up as they looked about, taking in the surroundings that would act as their home for the remainder of their education. She wondered if she had looked so awestruck the first time she saw Hogwarts, when she had spent most of that time giving her fellow first-years an impromptu tour of the castle. Hermione cringed at the memory of it.

They reached the classroom where these students would spend most of their time. The idea of this made Hermione worried for their sanity, so she had resolved to make their lessons as interesting as possible. The pre-first-years were too young to have their own wands, which meant teaching them magic would be out of the question. Sébastien had mentioned that electronics did indeed work in this school, so she could potentially show them some films--something her peers had cherished in primary school--but she would need to procure the necessary technology to display it. This was another problem since Hermione had no experience in the audio-visual department. She was not opposed to watching television or films herself but after being in magical society for so long, she had not had the opportunity nor pop-cultural pressure to pursue that form of entertainment. Perhaps a precocious Muggleborn would be able to help her.

Hermione was wrenched from her thoughts on visual media by Snape’s baritone. Even though they had already all met outside, her colleague was taking roll again, which gave her another chance to put names to faces. After each name Snape took a little bit of time to speak to the child in their native language, a small, but not insignificant gesture, Hermione noted. However, when he stopped to talk to the girl, who was indeed called Ximena, Hermione realized she was not speaking Spanish at all. At least it did not sound to Hermione like the other language in which Snape had spoken with to the other students from Spain.

Introductions concluded, Snape abruptly switched to French, but spoke in simple sentences. Then Hermione heard her name and knew it was her turn to say something.

“Hello, class. I am Professor Jean Gray. I am from England. English is my first language.” Hermione added a “hello” in English to accentuate her point. “So, I understand what you will be going through. I hope we have a great year.”

Hermione regretted not preparing a better introduction sooner. Hadn’t she remembered Sébastien’s remarks on first impressions? She had no idea if they understood anything. How much French schooling had the students received before coming to Beauxbâtons? She spent the rest of the hour fretting about her choices, while Snape taught a mini lesson on basic phrases and important vocabulary. This only exacerbated her worry. If she could not handle a simple introduction and Snape teaching most of the time, how could she handle her own class? 

Towards the end of the lesson, older students were quietly filing into the back of the classroom, having come from their principal classes, where everyone else was during this liminal time between drop-off and dinner. Nothing was taught during these principal classes, but they provided an opportunity for teachers to hand out schedules and perform other administrative tasks throughout the year. These older students, chosen because they spoke the same language as the French-learners, would act as mentors to the younger students.

Hermione watched as Snape called the new arrivals by name to meet their little responsibilities. Looking at the faces of these students, Hermione wondered how much of this work was voluntary. Judging by the matching grimaces on Ximena and a boy who appeared to be her older brother, their pairing was almost certainly compulsory.

Focused on the fight that was sure to break out at any moment between the two, Hermione nearly missed Snape signalling the class to stand up and follow him from the room. Once again she took up the rear as they all walked to dinner. Hermione was trying to take deep breaths and not to think too deeply about the upcoming year and how much of a disaster it was sure to be.

“Hey,” Hermione heard. She looked up to see the students in front of her looking to their left. Following their gazes, she saw Sébastien walking toward them, hand raised in greeting and a stupid grin on his face.

“Hi,” Hermione said, waving awkwardly in response. “Where’s your class?”

“They’re seventh-years. They all know where they’re going at this point, so I don’t need to escort them.”

“Right. Of course,” Hermione said.

“How’s the first day going so far?”

“Fine,” she replied, praying that the students close to them were not listening too closely. 

“You don’t have to lie to me,” Sébastien said, smirking.

“I’m afraid I don’t catch your drift.”

“Your unease is as clear as your worry lines.”

Hermione instinctively reached up to touch her forehead, noting the creases she found there. She winced. Why did she always have to be such an open book?

“Don’t worry. You’re still quite good-looking even with wrinkles.”

She could hex him right there for saying such things in front of their students. Hermione was about to quietly admonish him, when she noticed him walking away from her and the group.

“We’ll talk more at dinner,” he said, crossing into the ballroom.

The older students dispersed, taking their mentees to sit with their friends at the tables closest to the grand archway. Hermione walked to the windows where the teachers’ tables were located. Béatrice and Phœbé were already chatting with Sébastien. They all greeted her warmly as she joined them. 

“So?” Béatrice said.

“Hm?” Hermione said looking at her friend across the table.

“So, how was it? How was your first day?” Béatrice asked.

“Oh. It was fine. It wasn’t really my first day, was it? Not really, right?” Hermione said, trying and likely failing to look as unconcerned as possible.

“Oh, dear, were you petrified?” Phœbé asked.

Hermione smiled nervously. Her eyes met Sébastien’s, which were full of amusement. Of course her plan to appear blasé would not work. So why was she even bothering to pretend otherwise to them--her friends--anyway?

“Maybe a little,” Hermione admitted.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, Jean,” Phœbé chimed in. “That feeling of awkwardness will likely never go away. You’ll get used to it.”

Béatrice elbowed her tall friend.

“Don’t listen to her. I am sure you were wonderful.” Béatrice said, pausing to take a sip of her wine. “And even if you weren’t, I’m sure the kids were too nervous themselves to even notice you anyway.”

Hermione smiled. “Thanks for the confidence, you two.”

When the first course arrived on her plate, Hermione was not entirely sure what the dish was called--she was only so well acquainted with French cuisine, let alone magical French cuisine, but it appeared to be some sort of seafood soup. The soup was followed by the main course, a casserole, filled with beans and some sort of poultry--duck, she guessed. Then came the cheese course. Hermione recognized Roquefort, but perhaps that was easy considering its distinctive appearance and that she had been told its name during a previous dinner.

As the meal drew to a close, Madame Maxime stood up from at her spot at the center of the teachers’ tables. Beyond their smaller stature, it was readily apparent to Hermione who the new students were based on the looks they were giving the headmistress.

“Welcome to another year at Beauxbâtons Academy of Magic! I hope we all have a productive and educational year. And maybe, if we’re lucky, we’ll have a little fun as well. After all, the friends you make here will last your entire lifetime,” the rather tall woman said with a smile. The teachers and the students all clapped politely. “Now, classes start tomorrow bright and early and your teachers expect to see you all there. So, off to bed.”

Some older students--Hermione was not sure of their official title, but they seemed to behave like prefects--led the students by year and gender to their dormitories. Her and Snape’s students trailed their mentors, but they would be living with the first-years. Hermione mused that maybe this was an attempt to prevent them from learning too much saucy language before they could even form complete sentences in French.

Once the room was cleared of pupils, Hermione looked across the tables to see Snape, who was also looking at her. He gave her a nod that seemed to indicate that he wished to speak with her. Heart thumping, she made her way to him. He might have seemed to be in a good mood earlier, but that did not mean he was not going to dress her down then for any mistake. However, her path was soon blocked by a wide chest.

“Hey, would you like to come up to my room to have a celebratory, I-made-it-through-my-first-day-without-throwing-up drink?” Sébastien asked.

“I would, but I think Professor Rogue is trying to talk to me.”

In that moment, Hermione was thankful for Snape. She was unsure about Sébastien still and she did not think alcohol would add to that clarity.

“What about after?” Sébastien said to her as she was walking away.

“Didn’t you hear what Madame Maxime said? We have to be up early tomorrow. And I don’t think drinking is conducive to a good night’s sleep,” Hermione teased.

“You know you’re a real stick in the mud,” she heard from behind her back.

“Yes, I did know that. Thank you.”

Hermione smiled; she could not help herself. Sébastien was charming and though she hated to admit it, talking to him gave her butterflies. But being flirtatious was just part of his personality, she reasoned; he felt nothing beyond friendship for her. After all, why would he? To him she was just a plain, lowly English teacher. Plus, flirting was fun; there didn’t need to be anything more to it. Then again, had he not called her cute in front of Snape? Moreover, she could not decide if she had found that endearing or annoying. Was the act demeaning or affectionate? In any case, the logical part of her knew to keep on her toes, especially since she did not need to start a relationship any time soon.  _ But you don’t need to worry about that; he’s just a flirtatious guy _ , she reminded herself.

Snape said nothing when she finally reached him. But the fact that he only started walking when she was near him seemed to Hermione to indicate that he wanted her to follow him. They walked again in silence which only made Hermione more nervous. Was he not saying anything because it was too sensitive for anyone else to overhear?

Their destination was his office. Snape did close the door but Hermione was heartened by the fact that he did not feel a need to put up a Muffliato. He sat down at his desk and motioned Hermione to sit in the chair. Snape still did not say anything--a bad sign, Hermione thought--so she forced herself to talk. She decided it was better to get it over with as quickly as possible.

“What did you want to talk to me about, sir?” Hermione asked, trying to infuse her words with air of confidence that certainly did not exist.

“Nothing too serious that you had to cancel the nightcap with Mr. Montclair,” Snape responded.

“No, teaching is more important.” Hermione said.  _ That and I’m not sure I wanted to go anyway. _

“Well, as a consolation, I can offer you firewhiskey.”

Hermione almost gagged. She had had too many bad experiences with that foul liquid to be tempted by his offer. That, and Hermione wanted to keep the conversation moving so she could eek out some reading time before bed.

“It may be unimportant, but what did you want to tell me?”

“Only that you did a fine job today,” Snape said, almost bored.

Fine? Did he mean fine as in ‘refined’ or as in ‘adequate?’ Knowing him it was most certainly the latter. He had never praised her for nearly perfect potions, so why praise her for a less-than-stellar first day of work?

“Is that all you wished to say?” Hermione asked, unsure how else to respond to such a performance review.

“Like I had said previously, it was not going to be earth-shattering information.”

Hermione looked at the man sitting before her. He looked like his usual self, still buttoned up from a day at work, but he was slouching a bit, both arms draped over his chair’s armrests, legs crossed, his right heel resting on his left knee. What was he playing at? Clearly there was something more going on.

“And yet you brought me into your office,” Hermione said, growing annoyed. Maybe she had wanted to have a drink with Sébastien, if this was the alternative.

“You looked positively petrified today and I wanted to allay your fears. Since you will be alone with the students tomorrow, we don’t need you having nervous breakdown.”

_ What _ .  _ An _ .  _ Ass _ .

“Is that so?” Hermione said, hoping the edge in her voice was clear. “How considerate. Is that all, then? I think I’ll be going now.”

“I am trying to be helpful, Miss Granger,” Snape said.

“You certainly have a weird way of doing it,” Hermione said, pushing back in her chair, but not standing up.

“I was in the same position as you; I never wanted to be a teacher--” he said, uncrossing his legs and moving his chair closer to the desk.

“How do you know I never wanted to be a teacher?” Hermione said, cutting him off. “You yourself have mentioned my unhealthy attachment to books.”

“There’s more to teaching than books.”

“Really? Is that what your twenty-plus years of experience has taught you?”

“The sarcasm is not appreciated, Miss Granger.”

“I don’t appreciate the assumption that I wouldn’t want to be a teacher. What about me would indicate that I don’t want to teach?”

“Teaching obviously wasn’t your first choice as a vocation.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

“Maybe I realized I actually wanted to do some good in the world, so I changed careers,” she said.

“You and I both know that’s not the truth. You were going to be the next Minister for Magic.”

_ There it was. So, the Dungeon Bat  _ did _ know something. _

Hermione laughed mirthlessly. “Who told you that?  _ The Prophet _ ?”

Snape looked uncomfortable for a moment, confirming Hermione’s suspicions. No wonder he had such poor opinions of her. She could hardly believe he still read that rag, even abroad.

“Even if I were going to be Minister, do you honestly believe the way to make a difference is through politics?” Hermione said. “I thought you were more cynical than that.”

“Do you honestly believe teaching can have a bigger impact than policy?”

“I do. Especially if the teacher is a  _ good _ one. Of course bad teachers can still make an impact, just not necessarily a positive one.”

Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. Hermione was galled that he had the nerve to look so annoyed when she had been the one to miss out on a nice evening with a nice book.

“Why are we re-litigating my tenure as your teacher?” he asked, his exasperation clear.

“Because it’s still relevant,” Hermione said. “You admit to not wanting to be a teacher, yet you’re still teaching. You think your students want someone miserable teaching them?”

Snape stood up. “Now you’re assuming that  _ I _ don’t want to be a teacher. I never said I don’t enjoy teaching.”

“You hate children! I think liking children is a big part of the job description.”

“You try doing your job when your boss is emotionally blackmailing you to do his bidding the entire time.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“The children were not ‘emotionally blackmailing’ you, as you so nicely put it, so why take it out on them?”

“Look, I’m not proud of my past. But I am trying to be a better person.”

“Being a better person means ignoring me until the very last second to start working together?”

“I never said I am a better person, Miss Granger, but, as I’ve said, I am trying,” Snape said. “And excuse me for thinking the Minister would want to step down from her vaulted position to teach  _ English _ to magical children.”

“Oh, you’re trying very hard, aren’t you? Tell me, if you’re so intent on being a good man, why do you keep bringing that up?” Hermione wanted to scream in frustration. “I’ve made my decision; that’s not who I am anymore. And I was  _ not _ Minister for Magic.”

“When will  _ you _ stop bringing up every mistake I’ve ever made? That’s not who  _ I _ am anymore. I’ve apologized. Can we just move on?”

Hermione glared at the man. She was met with an equally hard stare. Breathing deeply, she tried to come down from her argument high. Somehow this man always brought out the pugnacious side in her.

“Fine. As long you promise to stop talking about my previous job.”

“Then I expect the same from you, Miss Granger,” he said, extending a hand.

After a moment’s hesitation she took his hand. She expected him to crush her fingers, like she was used to feeling from a man’s handshake, but he was gentle in comparison. He probably felt that she could not handle a firm grasp. Typical. She squeezed back, something she could admit was a bit petty, but that’s where she was at with Snape.

“Have you learned about Occlumency from your extensive reading?” Snape asked, apparently eager to change the conversation.

“A bit, why?” she responded, feeling defensive still.

“Since you found my previous advice to be so unhelpful, I thought I could maybe impart some information that you might actually find useful.”

Hermione crossed her arms. She might be wary of him and find his company less than pleasant, but if he was offering what she thought he was, then she could not refuse.

“And why would Occlumency be useful?” she asked. “Afraid the students will use Legilimency to get the test answers?”

“In addition to preventing someone from actively reading your thoughts, Occlumency can also be helpful for preventing someone from passively reading through your thoughts through your facial features and body language.”

_ Is that how he does it, then? I just thought he felt nothing at all. _

“Alright, I’m ready to learn then. So, I don’t look--how did you put it?--positively petrified tomorrow.”

Snape had stood up from his desk and was now in front of one of the many bookshelves lining his office walls. He returned with a hearty stack, which Hermione eyed hungrily.

“I don’t have the time nor the patience to tutor you tonight, but I will  _ loan _ you these books to do some preliminary research before we can find time to discuss the subject further.”

“Thank you,” was all Hermione could muster. Maybe if he behaved this way more often, her opinion of him would be slightly rosier.

“And it’s still early. If you hurry up, maybe you can rendezvous with Mr. Montclair and spend the evening with a good Potions teacher.”

Of course he had to ruin the moment. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again for the nice comments! I probably should've written the whole story before posting, instead of going chapter by chapter, but where's the fun in that?

Hermione was not the kind of person who normally wore makeup--not that she had anything against makeup, she just was not very adept at it and applying it took her much too long to be practical--but that morning she was liberally applying concealer to hide the dark circles under her eyes. Maybe Snape was actually trying to sabotage her and this was current attempt: sleep deprivation by way of interesting reading material. Slipping on her shoes and heading out the door, she reviewed her schedule for the eighteenth time--morning was English, followed by French in the afternoon. She supposed she was thankful for the busy schedule. Hermione feared if she stopped moving, she might fall asleep standing up.

Her first class was teaching sixth-years. These students would hopefully provide the most ideal start since they were relatively mature, but not as checked-out as the soon-to-be-leaving seventh-years. In any case, her plan for every class that morning was to have the students write about and then read to the rest of the class what they had done that summer. Sure, it was not the most inspired lesson, but it was probably best for everyone involved to start out with something simple.

As she had expected, the sixth-years’ English was quite good--the class was an elective after their fifth year--and Hermione felt confident that they could move on from writing short paragraphs about vacation to essays on literature. She had had some ideas about what she wanted her students to read but also considered letting them to have some choice in the matter to increase their interest in the material.

Next were the fourth-years, followed by the second-years. And while their English proficiency decreased by year, she was nonetheless impressed by everyone’s studiousness. She had hoped this trend would continue throughout the rest of the term, but Hermione also wondered if the students were just on their best behavior because it was the first day and she herself was an unknown quantity.

After the last second-year left her classroom, Hermione at last had the opportunity to breathe. Her growling stomach was telling her it was time for lunch. Hunger was a welcome sensation after yesterday’s stress-induced appetite loss. She was also beginning to relax, feeling like there might possibly be a chance that she could teach somewhat competently. Competency would have to suffice for now.

“I told you you could do it,” Sébastien said, sidling up beside her as she walked from her room.

“You said no such thing,” Hermione said.  “And even if you had, how do you know that I did?”

The two were walking side-by-side then, on their way to join the rest of the school in the ballroom.

“You look about half as nervous now as you did at breakfast.” Sébastien paused, as if for dramatic effect. “And... I may have some informants.”

“Really?” Hermione asked. “Tell me, who are these mysterious ‘informants?’” She knew full well he could only mean the students, but had decided to play along.

“Some of the sixth-years had potions immediately following your class and I could not help but ask them how you did.”

Hermione feigned disbelief. “You used  _ my _ students to spy on me? How could you? Are you trying to get me fired?”

She enjoyed the back and forth they seemed to share, but was this flirting? Could it be that she was coming on too strong? Or could this just be harmless banter? Hermione had never been one for flirtation so it was extremely hard for her to tell. Perhaps she could read more about it at the library.

“Yes, exactly. How did you know?” Sébastien said, with a toothy.

“I am an excellent judge of character,” Hermione said, giving Sébastien her best attempt at a wink.

Sébastien, predictably, laughed at her inability to do anything but blink, before showing her that he could wink with both eyes. Hermione hit him playfully in the shoulder to which he mimed crying out in pain.

“You know I’m still disappointed I missed that drink with you,” Sébastien said, changing the subject.

Hermione felt her Sébastien stomach butterflies come back. She scolded them, reminding them that Sébastien was only interested in her as a colleague and a friend.

“Is that so? Because I quite enjoyed drinking in my room. Alone. Without you.”

Oof. Did  _ that _ sound too much like flirting? Hermione cursed her luck; she must have been petrified in the Hospital Wing or something when everyone else had learned how to flirt.

After a lunch in which she worked very hard to not say anything that could be misconstrued as flirting, Hermione did not return to her own classroom but rather the classroom she shared with Snape. There was still one more class period before the younger students returned--they were shadowing their mentors’ lessons at this time--but Hermione wanted some time to review her notes and practice what she was going to say. She wanted all of her students to succeed but she especially for her youngest to; how much they learned in her class would determine how well they did in the following years.

Quietly mouthing the words to herself--Hermione wanted her pronunciation to be as close to perfect as possible--she was interrupted by someone clearing their throat. She looked up to see, who else but, Severus Snape.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

“Yes,” Hermione replied curtly.

“Do you have any questions?”

“Nope.”

“Did you see the notes I left for you?”

Hermione looked around. A piece of parchment covered in neat, if not cramped writing had been placed under the quill stand.

“Yes.”

Hermione continued scanning her own notes, but did not hear Snape leave.

“Can I help you with anything else?” Hermione asked. She immediately felt bad about her choice of words. They just had, after all, reached an uneasy agreement the previous night and she was doing a lousy job keeping the peace.

“You’re holding up?”

“I’ve made it this far, haven’t I?” Hermione answered, with perhaps a bit too much venom.

“Excuse me for trying to be polite, Miss Granger,” Snape said, sounding only mildly annoyed.

Hermione snorted. “More like you don’t trust me to do my job.”

“Or you don’t trust that I’m being genuine,” he offered.

“Yeah, I’m not…” Hermione looked up; he was gone. “...stupid.”

Hermione sighed, leaning her head into her right hand. All she had to do was be civil, but apparently she was now the one who was incapable of doing so. He had not even gotten mad at her, which made her only seem more like a petulant child. Hermione thought for a moment. If she kept behaving like this, she’d never get her occlumency lessons. There, that should be enough of an incentive for her to keep her mouth shut.

At ten of two the students began filtering into her class. When all the seats were filled, Hermione began her lesson on demonstratives. She had some volunteers stand up at the front of the class to demonstrate the difference between ‘this’ and ‘that,’ depending on who was speaking and how their location in relation to others changed. She was probably a bit too pleased at herself for coming up with the exercise, but the students also seemed to enjoy the ability to move around after a long day of sitting.

Before they knew it, it was time for dinner. And after dinner, bed. Hermione fell asleep that night in an instant, forgetting, at least for the moment, the troubles her past and present. Of course the next day would bring the even greater test: dance lessons.

Hermione arrived at the exercise room the following day, sneakers in hand. While she would be wearing heels at any official school function, she did not feel that she had to suffer in them now. Luckily she had beaten any students, giving her a chance to speak to Sébastien alone. As expected, he commented on her choice of footwear. Well, his comment was more non-verbal and came in the form of a lookover and a lingering glance at her feet.

“What?” Hermione asked, knowing exactly what ‘what’ was.

“I didn’t say anything.”

Sébastien, for his part, was wearing his a pair of his usual leather dress shoes. Hermione doubted he owned a pair of trainers.

“Maybe the students will be so drawn to my colorful shoes that they won’t have time to notice how I flounder,” Hermione said, giving a little kick, which she only realized after the fact how dumb she probably looked.

Sébastien tilted his head, looking unconvinced, but still smiled at her demonstration of “floundering.”

“I guess I’ll just have to live with it then,” Hermione said with a shrug. “I’ve been made fun of my entire life, why stop it now?”

“That’s certainly one philosophy to have.”

“Sébastien, the sooner you learn that you can’t control the way people perceive you, the happier you’ll  be,” Hermione said, wishing she actually believed that herself.

“Yes, well, shouldn’t I at least try to put my best foot forward, in a manner of speaking?”

Hermione gave him a look for the terrible pun, but there was no time left to banter, since the students had begun to trickle in. Shortly after the first arrival, Sébastien began the lesson. It was a bit weird at first for Hermione to hear Sébastien speaking French; he seemed to exclusively speak to her in English. Hermione looked around at their class. They were all young--ballroom dance was required learning--and some faces certainly wore the mandatory-ness plainly. She was not sure she blamed them. Hermione probably would not have wanted to waste her precious learning time on something so frivolous. Her parents had tried to get her to do ballet before her schooling had begun at Hogwarts and that had not gone over well. One would think her desire for approval would transfer to the dance floor but neither she nor her parents nor her instructors could bring herself to practice.

“My lovely assistant will help demonstrate.”

Hermione snapped her focus back to the class at hand. Clearly Sébastien had said something amusing because some of the students were giggling. Looking at some of them, Hermione wondered if any had crushes on Sébastien, like her ridiculous crush on Lockhart. Sébastien was, in his own way, a bit like her old Defense teacher--full of interesting stories and maybe a little full of himself, not that Hermione faulted him for it. If she were Cambridge-educated and a Potions master, would she not also be a little pompous? No, instead she was but a nameless English teacher.

The two began their dance, though significantly slowed-down to show the steps. As Sébastien narrated to the class, they repeated, to the best of their abilities, in kind. Hermione and Sébastien, however, had previously only practiced in English, which proved a bit problematic. It took Hermione longer to parse what he was saying, especially since she was less familiar with dance-related vocabulary. Trying not to look at their audience, Hermione kept focus on Sébastien’s nose, which she could tell had been broken at least once. Rather than marr his handsomeness, the feature only enhanced it, giving him a rather devil-may-care look. The realization that she liked his nose only added to her mounting discomfort.

Finally the demonstration part of the lesson was over and the students reluctantly partnered up. There were three more boys in the class than girls, so two had to pair off and one was handed over to Hermione. Sébastien told the mortified, paired boys that only the best dancers could dance both parts, but also reassured them that their partners would constantly be changing throughout the term. The boy assigned to Hermione, however, might have looked even more stricken. Hermione tried to ease the tangible awkwardness by explaining that she was a learner as well.

Sébastien was going around the room now, correcting the pairs’ form and rhythm. He was also constantly moving hands. Hermione could understand why the pairs would have to rotate based on the familiarity some of them seemed to already share. Surely, her classmates had not been so bold, right? And had she always found the intimacy of adolescents so hard to bear?

“Thiago, don’t be scared; she won’t bite,” Sébastien said as he approached Hermione and her much shorter partner.

Sébastien gently pushed the two closer. Hermione had not yet had the opportunity to teach this young man or any of his classmates, for that matter. She would, however, later that day. She hoped for Thiago’s sake that he would not be made fun of too heavily for being forced to dance with a teacher.

Many sweaty palms and misplaced steps later, Sébastien was driving the class’s focus back to him.

“You all should be thankful that you are attending Beauxbatons; at no other school would you receive such an education. My assistant is proof of that.”

After another laugh at Hermione’s expense, the students left. Sébastien gathered his speakers, draping a towel over his shoulders. Hermione watched him. He certainly did not look like he had sweated a single drop. Meanwhile she was furiously drying her hands on her pants. Whose sweat it was--hers or Thiago’s--she had no idea.

“See? You did better than you thought. Don’t know why you were doubting yourself so much,” Sébastien said.

“It certainly doesn’t help when you make fun of me in front of the students,” Hermione said, realizing after the fact that she was only half-joking.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Hermione crossed her arms and gave him a look.

“Did you not say that you’ve been made fun of your whole life, so why stop it now?”

Hermione narrowed her eyes.

“Okay,” Sébastien said. “While I don’t consider it ‘making fun of you,’ I’m sorry.”

“I accept your apology,” Hermione said, feeling a bit better that she said something. “You can continue to make fun of me in private and among friends, but it certainly doesn’t help the students’ opinion of me to do it in front of them.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Sébastien said, as Hermione was almost out the door. “But I think you should be thankful I even invited you.”

Hermione leaned against the doorframe, turning back to look at him. “Is that so? You’re saying that I should just be grateful and keep my mouth shut?” 

Sébastien shrugged, a devilish grin on his face. “Most women would be honored.”

“Most  _ women _ ? I take that... Rogue wasn’t in the running to be your partner, then?” Hermione was not sure why Snape’s was the first name to pop into her head, but did not dwell on it.

“He’s certainly not as nice to look at, no,” Sébastien said, moving a step closer.

Any brilliant repartee Hermione was about to deliver got stuck in her throat. Hermione looked at her watch, hands sweaty again.

“I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.”

Hermione was barely able to remember where she was going. All her brainpower seemed to be going towards trying to understand what Sébastien had meant, if anything at all. And if something was meant, what did that mean for her. At first she was flattered by the harmless flirtation, if it could even be called that. Now she was just tired of the uncertainty. Did she even feel anything back for him? He was handsome but was he even her type? She had not really dated enough men to know her type. Who was she kidding? Precisely because he was so handsome and she was so… unremarkable looking was reason enough to know he was not interested in her. What about his childhood friend? Was he still carrying a torch for her? And behind all this confusion there was also the ever-present guilt.

The guilt was entirely undeserved--Hermione was very aware of this fact. He had made it abundantly clear that there was no room left in his heart for her. Still, this fact did not stop the occasional pangs of sadness that seemed to coincide with the Sébastien butterflies. So, she kept the guilt with her, stuck with these feelings that she wished would just disappear. She had--very briefly--considered that something with Sébastien might ease the pain faster, but even Hermione Jean Granger was smarter than that. Such a relationship was bound to be short and as her friend, Sébastien deserved to more than just a rebound fling. No, it seemed to Hermione that time would be her only salve. That, and Sébastien did not feel that way about her.

Beyond the concern over Sébastien weighing heavily on her mind, the rest of the day could have been considered a success. The third-years she had had dancing lessons with did not seem to remember her. Perhaps they did not recognize her without the colorful sneakers. Or, maybe, like her, they were willfully forgetting what had transpired only hours ago. Thiago especially played up the fact that he did not know her. Instead opting to make as little eye contact as possible. Wishing to spare him, Hermione did not call on him the entire class. In the future, she would not let him get off so easily, but for that day, she made an exception.

Just as with her third-years, Hermione’s plan for Sébastien was to treat him the same as normal, as if he had said nothing out of the ordinary to her, ever. She was going to play it cool, as it were. Joining her friends at their usual table, she watched them all with a bit more attention than normal. Perhaps Sébastien’s behavior could be explained by culture--flirtation might be a way of life for them. As she dwelled on it, her theory was starting to make more and more sense. The French did kiss upon greeting and it was not be hard to be warmer than the notoriously frigid English.

Despite all this, Hermione was starting to relax. She had taught all of her classes and had found that it was not as bad as anticipated. She was even beginning to let herself hope that she could actually do this. And as a reward for surviving her first two days, Hermione decided to sneak off to the library following dinner. The term had just begun and there would likely be few students there, the perfect opportunity to find a book or two.

Among the stacks, Hermione was at home. The occlumency books Snape had lent her only whet her appetite. Scanning the spines for a title to attract her attention, she was thankful to have chosen to live in a new country. A new country meant new books that were not readily available in her homeland.

Giant stack in hand, she returned to the solitude of her own quarters. After a long day, however, her bed was looking so tempting, especially since there was a warm, soft friend already curled up there. But she reminded herself that she would likely not have much time to read this semester and that she had to utilize every opportunity she got. Just because her subject was not magical, did not mean she had to let her magical ability atrophy. Picking up a rather heavy tome on arithmancy and prime numbers, Hermione dove right in.

The rest of the week flew by. Hermione relished each ordinary, unremarkable day, a welcome change from her previous life. She spent her time being friendly to Sébastien, tolerating Snape, getting to know her students, and at night, she read, moving from arithmancy, to transfiguration, and finally to potions, interspersing occlumency throughout. Hermione realized that the amount of time she could spend reading each night was directly related to the amount of work she assigned. She did want them to learn, but she decided to be judicious about what and how much she assigned--for both their sake and her own. Her classes were mandatory for some, of course, but she also knew the students’ other subjects took precedent and likely most of their time. If both of them could benefit from a little extra time, why bother filling their plates with rote work?

“Someone’s not very social tonight,” Béatrice said one night at dinner.

“I thought we had cured you of this, Jean,” Phœbé added.

“What are you reading anyway? Looks too big to be  _ Pride and Prejudice _ ,” Sébastien teased.

Hermione slipped her bookmark back into the book and triumphantly handed it over to Sébastien.

“ _ Novel Catalysts and their Effects on Low-Temperature Brewing _ ? Color me impressed. I didn’t know you were interested in potions,” Sébastien said as he turned the book over in his hands.

“I’m interested in  _ everything _ ,” Hermione retorted.

“You are? Or are you just trying to impress me?” Sébastien asked.

“The day I do something to impress you, Bastien, will be a cold day in hell,” Hermione said.

“It’s good you didn’t say ‘when pigs fly,’ because I would have had to tell you there are flying boars in France,” Sébastien said, looking smug.

“I know. I’ve read about them.”

Sébastien returned the book to her with a wicked grin. Hermione snatched it up and continued where she had left off. She had chatted with them at breakfast and lunch and just because she was not using her real name that did not mean she could not be herself sometimes. And thankfully, her friends did not seem to mind too much that she was a bit introverted.

Saturday morning Hermione woke early to grade quickly and then continue reading. She was not sure if her friends would be inviting her out to do things and after her reading at the table the previous evening, she could not, in good conscious, reject the offer. Pulling out her orange gel pen--orange, she felt was much friendlier than red--and set about correcting. After crossing out an errant ‘the’ in a student’s essay, Hermione heard a shuffling noise coming from her door. It appeared that a letter had been shoved underneath. Figuring whoever left it was likely still outside, she simply opened her door instead of reading the note. Of course, had she known who was out there, she may have rethought her decision.

“S-Professor Rogue,” she said, keeping her tone neutral and reminding herself to be civil. “Why don’t you come inside?”

Hermione did not want him to actually do what she had just suggested, but she would rather the conversation continued in her warded room rather than in the hallway for everyone to hear.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“I insist,” she said, with perhaps a bit too insistently to be considered civil.

“What did you want to talk about?” she asked once he was inside.

He looked around, taking stock of the room, but did not direct his attention to her. His wandering gaze made her wonder how he found her decorating--well, not that it mattered.

“Like I said, that won’t be necessary,” he said, his eyes finally landing on the note clutched in Hermione’s hand.

_ Not this again _ , Hermione thought.  _ Why does he seem to become reticent only after asking to talk to me? _

“You walked all the way here to deliver a note but you don’t want to talk about it?” Hermione asked, trying to hide her incredulity.

“A hand-delivered missive can’t be intercepted,” Snape said, as if it were obvious.

Hermione raised a brow.

“Are you that untrusting of your co-workers? Hang-on. Don’t answer that. I already know the answer.” Hermione did her best impression of him. “The real question is: aren’t you, Miss Granger?”

Snape shrugged, as if to agree with her response.

“Why don’t you just tell me? I’m... not in the mood for reading this morning,” she joked, hoping that would coax him into speaking.

Snape sighed. “I went to the library last night looking for a book and when I couldn’t find it, the librarian told me you had it.”

“So... you wrote me a note to read faster, you insufferable know-it-all?” she said, mimicking his voice at the end.

“No,” Snape said, only now starting to look annoyed. “I’m not finished, Miss Granger. If you’re going to interrupt me, I’ll leave you to read the note I had so painstakingly written.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but acquiesced.

“Yes, I was disappointed that the book was currently in your possession, but you may continue to read it at your own pace. I just… I should have realized that you would be missing your magical studies.”

Hermione snorted. “See, you really don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

“Miss Granger--” Snape said sharply, but he seemed to soften, “So if you’re missing potion-making, if you wanted to… you can, uh, use-my-lab.”

Snape had been speaking so fast during the last bit that Hermione was not sure she had heard correctly.

“Pardon me?” Hermione looked at him again. Whatever he was trying to say clearly pained him.

“If you want to continue experimenting and learning more about potions, you can use my lab. When I’m also there.”

Hermione was surprised to say the least. What sort of ploy was this?

“You have a lab? You don’t teach potions anymore.”

“My own lab--that was my stipulation to the headmistress when I agreed to teach German.”

Hermione nodded but felt a bit cheated herself. She did not know she could make such demands when she came to teach here. Then again, she did sort of beg.

“You don’t have to do that. I’m almost done with the book,” Hermione said.

Snape held up his hand.

“I’ve already offered. Don’t try to convince me otherwise.” Snape paused and when he continued his voice was quieter. “Trust me. I’ve thought about it for a long time. We can combine it with discussions on occlumency.”

“Okay” was all Hermione could manage.

“Since you’ve heard all that I had written, Miss Granger, I think I will be going now, if that’s permissible.”

“Alright,” Hermione said, still in shock.

When her old professor had gone and Hermione had regained her wits, she returned to her desk to continue grading. She had gotten through three more students’ papers when she remembered the note; she still had not read it. But when she looked for it--it had just been in her hands, hadn’t it?--Hermione could find no trace of the letter.


	7. Chapter 7

After lunch and no mention of Snape’s weird pattern of behavior to anyone else--but honestly she had no way of explaining it without revealing who she truly was--Béatrice and Phœbé invited Hermione to take a trip to a nearby town for something different.

“Finally some fresh air,” Phœbé said, after they apparated into a side street of the village. “But more importantly, no students in sight.”

“Are they really that intolerable?” Hermione asked, thinking her friend must be exaggerating.

“How long have you been at this? One week? Come back to me when you’ve been doing it as long as we have,” Phœbé responded.

“It’s not that they are intolerable, more that it’s nice to walk around and not constantly be on patrol for troublemakers,” Béatrice added.

Hermione could understand that. She smiled to herself wondering what her two new friends would have made of her and her old friends at school. Dumbledore had most likely been amused by their antics, but she did not know if she could say the same thing for her head of house. Hermione made a mental note to send Minerva McGonagall an owl, thanking her once more for the years of what could only have been described as teacher torture.

“Clearly your first impressions have been good then,” Phœbé said.

“They’re excellent. I think teaching will be a rewarding profession for me,” Hermione said, aware of how naïve she must sound.

“Rewarding spiritually? Maybe. Rewarding financially? Certainly not,” Phœbé responded.

The group ended their stroll at a café with a breathtaking view of a valley among the many mountains of the area.

“So, Jean, if you weren’t teaching, what would you be doing instead?” Béatrice asked after a quiet moment.

Hermione laughed nervously. “Good question. Uh… I don’t think my education credentials provide me with much of another choice. I suppose I could also be a writer.”

_ A writer _ ? Hermione had never considered herself a writer; she much preferred being on the other side of the book.

“You’re also a witch, surely you had some magical careers in mind as well. You were reading that potions book,” Béatrice said, sounding sweet as ever.

Hermione could not help growing suspicious. Was this turning into another well-meaning person telling her she was squandering her potential?

“Naturally, I did. I like all manner of magical subjects. I think that’s part of my problem--I have too many interests, too many options to choose from,” Hermione said, surprised by the truth in her words. She had not really thought about it, but she supposed this was where some of her anxiety after Hogwarts had come from.

“Yes, I understand,” Béatrice said. “Having no choice is certainly less than desirable, but many options can sometimes feel worse because then every decision can feel like the wrong one.”

“Yes, and then once you’ve settled on a decision, all other paths feel closed off to you permanently,” Hermione added, happy that someone seemed to agree with her.

“Well, on that note,” Phœbé said, raising her glass, “here’s to making the right decision and even if we don’t, finding satisfaction anyway!”

That evening Hermione was pleased to have plenty of free time on her hands, allowing her to finish the stupid book she had begun regretting borrowing in the first place. On Sunday she returned it to the library, but Hermione was still undecided about what to do next. Her favorite option would be to do nothing and to just have the librarian inform Snape that his book was available. Despite her better judgment, this still felt like the cowardly way out. Moreover, part of her was still interested in seeing his lab; telling him that she had finished would be the perfect excuse to see it. This would not force her to act on his offer, only provide a short visit. Mind made up, Hermione brought herself to talk to Snape, giving Crookshanks a pat as she left. The only problem was, she had no idea where he or his lab was.

Her first step was to check his office. When she saw no sign of him, she checked his classroom, followed by their shared classroom. Hermione was beginning to question her decision. How was she supposed to find him in this huge school? Though she disapproved of its use, just this one time Hermione really wished she had a Marauder’s Map for Beauxbâtons.

Then an idea came to her. Why would his lab not be where the others potions labs were? She remembered Sébastien mentioning his own lab was on the first floor of the east wing. Hermione headed there, confident that she would find her goal.

“Looking for someone?” she heard a voice say behind her.

She turned abruptly to see Sébastien, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a smug look on his face.

She must have looked surprised because he asked, “What happened to you to make you so jumpy?”

“Nothing happened,” Hermione said. “I’m just naturally so. Maybe I was a rabbit in a past life.”

_ Wow, he really makes me say the lamest things. _

“Yes, I can imagine your Patronus would be a hare…” Sébastien said, looking thoughtful. “Anyway, you looked surprised to see me. Would you not expect to see me, a potions professor, here, in the potions wing?”

“I didn’t think you would be working on the weekend, but I should’ve known you would be so diligent. But actually, I was looking for the Professor Rogue,” Hermione said, reflexively tucking her hair behind her ear. Of course her hair was no longer long enough to perform such a motion, but the nervous tic remained.

“You won’t find him here,” Sébastien responded, matter-of-factly. 

“Oh,” Hermione said, met with another dead end. “Would you know where his lab is then?”

“His lab? Rogue doesn’t have a lab. Unless you mean a language lab,” Sébastien said, laughing at his own joke.

“Okay, thanks for your help. Sorry for bothering you,” Hermione said.

“Bothering me? Does it look like you’re bothering me?” Sébastien said, moving away from the wall.

“I suppose not. Still, you’re probably working on something and I’d hate for you to ruin it for my sake.”

Hermione turned away, to either continue her search or give up--she would decide along the way--when she felt Sébastien grab her arm.

“Wait. Why would you think Rogue would have a lab?”

Crap. Hermione did not know how to respond. She felt no allegiance to Snape but she still did not want to reveal to Sébastien that Snape apparently had a secret lab, especially if that was likely to draw suspicion.

“I must have misheard him. You know how bad my French is.”

Hermione hoped her self-deprecating joke would satisfy Sébastien.

“Yes, of course,” Sébastien said with a wolfish grin. “Want to see mine then?”

“Yours?” Hermione asked.

“My lab. And I should clarify: a potions lab.”

Hermione just nodded. It was not like she had anything better to do. She would have to talk to Snape another day. Or, a better idea popped into her head: she could just use Sébastien’s lab, if he let her.

“This,” he said, leading them into the room closest to them, “is my private lab.”

The room was much brighter than Hermione would have thought and seemed to be missing the jars that Hermione had come to associate with potioneering.

“What are you working on?” Hermione asked--the potions were all too far away for her to get a good look.

“Nothing too exciting, just restocking the infirmary.”

“Not exciting, but nevertheless important!”

Hermione took a deep breath, realizing her opportunity.

“Do you need help with that? It must get boring making the same potions over and over. If you had help, you could focus on more ‘exciting’ projects.”

Sébastien laughed.

“You mean from you? Do you already hate your students that much that you want to poison them?”

Hermione was, admittedly, very hurt at first. But the pain eased slightly when she remembered that Sébastien did not really know her. She may have mentioned an interest in potions but she had yet to show him her abilities.

“You’re funny,” he added.

“I know,” Hermione said, defeat washing over her. “You’ve told me. Not haha funny.”

“No, I think that was haha funny.”

After an awkward moment, Hermione finally made her excuses and left. She had wanted to stay longer and learn more about the tools Sébastien had at his disposal but the man was being less than forthcoming. Surely at this point he knew she was bright? Was it not apparent in her bookishness or rampant curiosity? Or maybe she was not bright at all and Snape had been right; she just absorbed information and parroted it back out, not really thinking at all. Still, it was nice to finally be friends with someone with more academic pursuits, even if he did not always share them with her. That had to be better than nothing, right?

Then, one evening, following a full day of teaching, grading, lesson planning, Hermione was in her office marking the French-learners’ first written assignment. Spelling aside--for who did not struggle with the language’s orthography?--the students were making excellent progress. At least she thought they were--it was hard to know otherwise. Hermione made a mental note to ask Snape what he thought. Normally she would not want to talk to him unless necessary but this seemed to be class related and for that she could put aside their differences, at least for the sake of their students.

“Miss Granger.”

Hermione jumped. She had really ought to research a blind-spot spell, or whatever it was called, to prevent such occurrences. Knowing Snape however, he would probably find a way around it. Or, more likely, he was already highly skilled at slipping past blind-spot detectors.

“Yes?”

“You’re not at dinner.”

Really? What time is it? I got lost in my work. These were some things she could have said, but for some reason being around Snape made her bristle.

“I wasn’t aware I had to be at dinner but thanks for being my nanny and watching out for me.” 

Hermione bit her lip.There she went, always being meaner than necessary.

“Just an observation. I did not go to dinner either. I came here to get the notebook I had left.”

Snape stepped beside the desk at which Hermione was sitting and reached into the lower right-hand drawer, pulling out a leather-bound notebook.

“Hope I wasn’t too much of a nuisance. I’ll be going.”

“Wait,” Hermione said, as he was walking out the door.

He turned abruptly on his heel and gave her a confused look. She could not believe what she was about to say.

“Could you show me your lab? I mean, I’m assuming that’s where you’re going.”

Hermione was sure he would shut her down. Yes, he had offered that one time, but she still was rather rude to him, seemingly without fail.

“You assume correctly.” Snape looked mock-pensive for a moment before adding, “Yes, I suppose you may tag along.”

Hermione gathered the papers and placed them into her bag before following Snape out the door. She was not entirely sure where they were going, but it was not in the direction of the other potions labs.

“Sir, are your labs off your quarters?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” he replied.

Hermione balked.

“Is that really out of the realm of possibility? It is a magical castle after all. Rooms can be added at will.”

Hermione did not approve of him talking down to her. She was a witch; she knew what magic was capable of. She just did not think his lab would be  _ there _ , of all places. Then, Hermione realized, with a shiver down her spine, that she would be seeing his chambers. She imagined an all black room covered in jars. Even his bathroom walls would be shelved with jars. Well, she was not likely to see his bathroom. Unless, she thought, his potions lab was located off of his bathroom. Maybe, Hermione thought, smiling to herself, he had transformed his otherwise unused bathtub into a very large cauldron.

The living space that greeted Hermione after Snape unlocked and unwarded his door was surprisingly mundane and jar-free. He decorated sparsely save for, like her, many bookshelves. Nothing was black, but he did seem to favor the color gray. Snape walked to a bookshelf and pulled down a book--he moved too fast for Hermione to see which one--and the bookshelf scooted over, revealing a staircase. Hermione wanted to laugh at the theatricality of it. Hermione wondered if Snape knew he was being clichéd or if he had set the bookshelf-door up unironically. If he were anyone else, maybe she would have asked him. Snape did not even light his wand as he descended into the dark space, but since Hermione did not want to break her ankle around Severus Snape, cast a wordless Lumos and followed after him down a tight, spiraling staircase.

The laboratory did meet Hermione’s expectations in terms of jars but it lacked the dungeon-ness she remembered from her potions lessons. Hermione was feeling a bit sad at this revelation, which struck her as odd, but she decided the blame could be placed solely on the misrememberings of nostalgia.

“Not as nice as what I had back at Hogwarts, or even at my old home for that matter.”

Did Hermione detect a note of embarrassment in his voice? So, perhaps it was second-hand embarrassment that caused her to reply in such a way.

“No, it’s great.”

Wow, could she sound any lamer?

Though Hermione had no idea if they were above or below ground, the windows seemed to be letting in some sort of light. Whether natural or magical, the window sills and shelves were covered in plants to take advantage of this. Clearly potions ingredients, Hermione thought. Remembering her herbology classes, she identified wormwood, nettles and wolfsbane, to name a few. Nestled beside the plants were, of course, many jars. To Hermione’s amusement many seemed to be recycled pickle jars.

Nestled away from the windows’ outpouring of light were even more of Snape’s bookshelves, likely because they were old, rare, and photosensitive. In this corner Snape awaited her. He stood beside a large--Hermione estimated fifty liters--cauldron full of a puce liquid. Bubbles were forming at the surface of this concoction but more akin to sparkling water than a rolling boil. Hermione would have liked to get closer, hoping to identify the mystery substance, but was equally wary as curious. She was also trying to breathe it in as little as possible in case Snape was trying to poison her with the fumes. This was not a bad place to commit homicide, Hermione thought. She was greeted with the intrusive thought of Snape dismembering her and pickling her parts in one of his many jars.

“This,” Snape said, gesturing to the cauldron, “is why I needed that book.”

Hermione peered at the potion again, trying not to think about her final resting place being among lacewing flies and rat livers. She was fairly confident that she had never encountered such a brew though this was not wholly unexpected. As much as she hated to admit it, Snape was an accomplished potioneer and this was likely one of his own invention.

“What is it?” Hermione said, daring herself to inch closer.

“Sort of an Obliviation potion,” Snape began. 

Hermione was surprised by the lack of haughtiness in his voice. Surely he would not expect her puny mind to fully appreciate his work?

“Except it works on all the memories featuring a certain person rather than a single event.”

Hermione nodded dumbly, trying to think of intelligent questions to ask. Many were swimming around in her head but she needed to grab the most eloquent one.

“Unfortunately it takes six months to brew properly, which is why I was looking for a suitable catalyst to start the process.”

To Hermione the most pressing question was why he even wanted to develop such a potion but perhaps it was purely out of academic interest.

“Do you think it’s an interesting endeavor?” Snape asked.

Hermione looked at him then, trying to gauge his his intent. Did she find it interesting? What kind of question was that? But Snape was not looking at her.

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Then how would you feel about helping me perfect it?”

Hermione wished she still had her time turner so she could rewind time and listen to his question again. Surely he was not asking her, Hermione, insufferable know-it-all, for help in his area of expertise?

“I would be flattered, naturally, though also confused. Would it not be better to ask Sébastien? He likely has experience designing experiments as well, considering his background.”

Snape shook his head.

“Only you know who I am. I… do not feel comfortable disclosing such information to Mr. Montclair.”

“You’re saying he’s untrustworthy?”

“I am not trusting by nature.”

“And yet you trust me to help you. Why?”

Snape gave her a pointed look, as if to indicate that he did not wish to argue with her further.

“Better the devil you know,” he said.

Despite the deeply unsatisfying answer, Hermione did not continue her protestations. Perhaps it was better to be silent and accept that he found her at least capable enough to ask in the first place.

“So, will you do it?” Snape asked after a stretch of silence. “There will be monetary compensation, of course.”

The question of money had never even entered Hermione’s mind. Snape could not have even mentioned it and she would have gladly worked for nothing. Though she could not help but think that money did sweeten the deal.

“You’re being paid?” Hermione asked, an obvious question, of course.

“No, I just do this because I genuinely enjoy it,” Snape responded sarcastically.

“You don’t?” Hermione asked, feeling dumber by the minute.

“It is true I am interested in potions but I also value my free time, so if I am to work on a project, I would like to receive money for it.”

If it was not making potions in his free time, what was he doing then? Hermione was not imaginative enough to figure out what his other hobbies might be. Either Snape was using legilimency, or--more likely--Hermione was wearing her confusion on her face, because Snape continued.

“Believe it or not, I do have a life outside of my current job and potions.”

Hermione did not believe it, but mostly because she was not sure if she had a life outside of her job either. She spent time outside of work with her new friends, but they were also work friends. Hermione wrinkled her nose. Did her former professor have a romantic life?

“Are you done mentally insulting me or do I have to continue watching you make faces?”

“I know, I know. I would make a horrible spy.”

“It’s not just you, all of you bleeding-heart Gryffindors wear your hearts on your sleeve,” Snape said with a rare smile. “We still have to work on your Occlumency.”

Hermione realized then that she had neither accepted nor rejected his offer. Sure, she did not have much time on her hands as it was, but could she pass up this opportunity to learn under him, especially since her potions skills were oxidizing after years out of school? And while she had technically been under his tutelage for five years, this would be more intimate, one-on-one learning. This could either be good or bad, but she was leaning more towards bad. Although he had yet to criticize her teaching, she had no reason to believe that he would behave similarly in this situation, in his domain. This would also mean spending even more time with a man she was already being forced to interact with. And yet, despite all of this, her insatiable desire to learn was winning her over.

“Alright, sir, you have yourself a deal,” Hermione said, holding out her hand.

Snape accepted her and shook it firmly. He did not hurt her, but she could admit that she was a bit envious of his firm handshake. She was also surprised how dry his hands were compared to her own moist ones. Despite his perceived misgivings about personal hygiene, Hermione was sure he found that exchange disgusting. But, as always, his face betrayed none of this.

“When do we start?” Hermione asked, surreptitiously drying her hands by sliding them into her pants pockets.

“I was thinking now, but if you had other plans?”

“No, nope, I am free the rest of the night,” Hermione said, while privately mourning her reading time that night.

“Excellent, then we can delve a little into Occlumency as well.”

_ Great, like double potions all over again _ , Hermione thought.

Snape began describing the process by which he started on the potion, beginning with the theory. The base was similar to the contents of a pensieve and the person-unique qualities came from some elements of the Polyjuice potion. This particular iteration was his sixth and had been sending every previous attempt to the potions-making community to develop their recipe. Hermione listened with rapt attention, enamored.

“I’ll admit I’ve never tried it myself but my colleagues have had some success.”

Hermione’s eyes widened.

“Is that ethical, to take someone’s memories unnecessarily? Who would they even test it on?”

Snape gave her the second toothy grin of the evening, although if she was not mistaken there was a bit of mischief there, much to her chagrin.

“That’s what their apprentices are for.”

Snape nearly cackled at Hermione’s horrified look.

“I don’t expect the same from you, but I will admit I myself was the subject of many experimental potions during my own apprenticeship.”

“That’s barbaric.”

Snape shrugged. “Someone has to do it. Would you prefer we tested on house elves?”

“No,” Hermione said, defeated.

“Well, you’ll be pleased to know that I don’t expect the same from you.”

Snape looked at her then and raised his brow perceptively.

“Unless you would prefer to try it?”

Hermione began to shake her head but thought about it for a second. Maybe there was one person she wanted to forget. No, as much as it might feel good now to forget it all, in the end she knew it would be devastating. As much as she hated to admit it, he had been a large part of her life and her formative years. Would she be the same person she was today if she forget every moment with him? Especially when so many were so important?

“I thought not,” Snape said, a wry smile curling his lips. “I think that’s a good enough introduction for now. Now tell me what you have learned from those books I lent you.”

Hermione cast a surreptitious glance at her watch. It was getting late. Surely, Snape must be growing tired of her. Still, in her usual manner, Hermione recited verbatim important points about Occlumency from its history, to its famed masters, and of course, a description and theory on how each technique functioned.

“And have you tried any of the techniques recommended?” Snape asked after Hermione’s lengthy soliloquy.

“I’ve tried a little, but it’s hard to know if you’ve succeeded without something actively trying to gain access to your thoughts,” Hermione said.

“Yes, well, it will be awhile until we reach that part anyway… In any case, I have found those techniques to be overly complicated, so I will be teaching you a different method--”

“Then what was the point of giving me those books in the first place?” she said, her tiredness starting to tug on her mask of civility.

Hermione rummaged in her beaded bag. She wanted to slam the books on the table for dramatic effect, but cared too much for their safety to do that, so she was forced to gently place them instead.

“You like reading, don’t you?” Snape asked.

Hermione looked at him, exasperated. “Yes,” she said with a sigh.

“Did you not enjoy every minute of absorbing every minutia?”

“Yes, but--”

“Then it was not a complete and utter waste of time, was it?”

Hermione sighed again, this time even louder. Why was she here again?

Snape continued. “As I was saying… what I have discovered is to do something similar to Muggle meditation.”

“I’ve heard of that. It’s when--”

She wanted to continue but she was shot down by Snape’s annoyed look. Hermione had no idea how he could be so self-righteous when he was the one who had her read and take notes on a half-dozen books for apparently no reason.

“The first step in meditation is to think of nothing. It helps to focus on your breath.”

Hermione was quiet, waiting for him to continue and looking at him with full attention, despite her growing fatigue.

“Alright, I think we’re done here. Meet in two’s night time?” Snape said, not even making eye contact.

“Is that all you’ve got to say on the matter?” Hermione asked. Surely there had to be more. She already knew as much about meditation and could have told him had she not been given dagger eyes.

“Your homework is to practice that,” Snape responded.

“That’s it? That’s your ‘brilliant’ advice on the subject?”

“It’s harder than you’d think. Once you’ve mastered that, then we can move on to step two.”

Despite Snape’s usual propensity for disagreeableness, Hermione left feeling excited by the promise of more learning, albeit confused as to how she got roped into spending even more time with her former professor, who ostensibly did not like her. She supposed he must be truly desperate to come to her for help.

“Hey,” she heard a voice say, “what are you doing in the men’s wing at this hour?”

Snape had told her the coast was clear when she had left his quarters, but she had suspected she would be only be lucky for so long and that someone was bound to see her there. As a teacher and a grown adult, she was fully within her rights to be in that hallway, but it was a bit suspicious considering she would not normally have cause for being there. She made a mental note to tell Snape that they needed to devise a better way for her to sneak into his rooms at night.

“Funny you should say something, Sébastien. I was looking for you, in fact.”

“Really? And how were you going to do that? Knock on every door until I answered?”

“Well, I figured one of these guys would know where you lived so I only needed one to tell me which door was yours.”

“Fair point,” Sébastien said, crossing his arms. “So, what’s up?”

“I wanted to ask you about fencing,” she responded--the best lie she could come up with on such short notice.

“You wanted to ask me about fencing?”

“Yes, I liked it so much and thought you were such a good teacher that I wanted to ask if it would be possible to do more of it.”

Hermione was sure she was smiling much too broadly, so she tried to do what Snape had told her and clear her mind.

“You want to fence more?” Sébastien asked, amused but less than convinced. “And this was so urgent that you wanted to find me in my quarters to ask me about it?”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Hermione said, concentrating on her breath. She did not know what step two entailed, but perhaps step one was still a good start in hiding her true thoughts.

“No, I’m just teasing. I think it is an incredibly sweet gesture. Now that you mention it, the team could use another coach.”

“Coach?” Hermione squeaked, losing her focus. “How can I coach if I am barely a beginner?”

“You know what they say about teachers…”

“Yes, ha ha, it’s a very funny phrase but it’s not meant to be taken seriously. I have zero knowledge of the sport.”

Sébastien looked at her, blue eyes twinkling.

“Read a book about fencing.”

_ Damn _ , she thought. She had walked into that, hadn’t she?

“Still, I don’t think my presence would be value added.”

“ _ Au contraire _ , I think your presence would be value added... for me.”

“Why? By making you look good in comparison?”

Sébastien just laughed, shoving his hands back into pockets. Hermione could see the outline of his knuckles through his dress pants.

“I’d love to keep talking to you but it’s time to for me to go to sleep. I’ll see you Saturday for the first practice--bright and early! And in the usual room.”

Hermione was mentally kicking herself. How had she got roped into  _ another _ extracurricular activity? Wasn’t her time stretched thin as it was already? Perhaps she could write to the magical French government to request another time turner.

**Author's Note:**

> In this universe, Voldemort wasn't seen as much of a threat in France, so less people knew about him. I mean did JK ever talk about Voldy and France? No? Ergo, no one really knew what was going on in the UK. Let me know how dumb that sounds in the comment section down below.


End file.
